Chapter 6
Second floor.
Dark walls, low lighting, up-tempo music, a denser crowd milling about various rooms that are devoid of furniture save for colorful low couches and love seats in shades of navy, pink, and emerald. A number of couples are dancing, working it out in the back room overlooking the patio. Kennedy and Michael meander their way through the crowd, recognizing a few people. Mostly television and film stars whose names they can’t place.
From behind them, a voice booms above the din of music. “Stop the damn press! Who is this vision before me?”
Kennedy turns. Michael follows a moment later.
The man facing them is light-skinned, bald, with a neatly trimmed goatee, dressed in a pair of baggy jeans and a white V-neck tee covered by a burgundy velvet smoking jacket. His features resemble those of the artist Common. Around his neck is a thick chain attached to an enormous
R.
It could be silver, but it’s more likely platinum.
“RESPECT!” Kennedy exclaims.
“Hold up? Who is this fine specimen standing before me? I know that brutha behind her. . . . Michael, my man!”
RESPECT and Michael hug each other. RESPECT stands back, admiring Kennedy at arm’s length before he pulls her close.
“Goodness gracious, you are looking foine!” he says.
“Good to see you, too!”
“I was hoping y’all would show. How are you?”
Michael says, “We’re good. Look at you! Dapper, as usual.”
RESPECT grins. “Someone’s gotta do it. Come on, let me introduce you to some of my peoples.”
He takes them along, introducing them to his guests. RESPECT knows everyone, and once introductions are made, he is hard pressed to forget a name. He introduces Michael and Kennedy to a bunch of folks sitting around a cube made of brushed steel and glass. RESPECT states not only their names but also what they do for a living. One thing about RESPECT, he loves to be around powerful people—the movers and shakers.
Hand around Kennedy’s waist, he shushes everyone around the cube with his free hand and then begins the introductions. “Listen up, cause there
will
be a test afterward! Let’s see—that’s Keenya; she’s with the mayor’s office—you wouldn’t know it, with her fine self. Next to her is Jill—singer/songwriter. Beside her is Jake—music-video director. I KNOW you’ve seen his stuff—Beyoncé, Jay-Z, Lil Wayne, who else? Don’t matter—anyone who’s anyone, right, Jake? Next to him is his main squeeze, Trinity. What? Girl, stop trippin’, you know it’s true.” RESPECT pauses to give dap to Jake as Trinity sits with her arms folded across her chest like she’s mad at somebody. “Next to Trinity is Paul, investment banker extraordinaire. And last and definitely least, just playin’, that’s Doug, A&R rep for Sony BMG Music. Everyone, may I present Michael and his wife, Kennedy, with her fine self!”
Michael and Kennedy say hello. RESPECT doesn’t give them but three seconds before pulling them past the dance area to the staircase that leads to the third floor. As they ascend, he says, “I’m really glad you two made it.”
“We appreciate the invite, as always.”
“You know it!”
The third level is red-velvet wallpaper and Brazilian cherry hardwood floors, Polk Audio speakers spitting old school: Cherrelle, Alexander O’Neil, Dazz Band, the Time. A bunch of folks congregate around a piece of Australian Outback art, a dozen nude black-and-white photographs, low couches, and a polished bar in the back, the bartender commanding a brisk business. RESPECT introduces Michael and Kennedy to a well-dressed couple off by themselves near a window overlooking Seventy-fifth Street.
“Hey, let me introduce you to some good friends of mine,” RESPECT says, touching the elbow of the gentleman. “This is Michael and his wife, Kennedy. James and Lauren.” The four shake hands as RESPECT bounces off to say hello to someone else.
James is dressed in dark slacks and an oversized sweater. Thin-frame glasses adorn his clean-shaven face. Lauren is wearing a black dress with sequins and pearls.
“So, what do you do?” James asks, a bit formally.
Michael and Kennedy have this game that they play. When they’re out, especially away from home, they like to take on a different persona, a new identity, if you will. Kennedy answers first.
“Well, I’m in the adult-movie business,” Kennedy says, almost sheepishly. “Actually, I’m an adult-film actress.” James’s eyes almost bug out. Lauren, whose hand was rather loosely draped in the crook of James’s arm, suddenly pulls him closer.
“Really?” James responds. “Are you . . . serious?”
Kennedy nods without blinking. She notices that James is now allowing his eyes to roam over her dress, stopping several times at her full breasts.
“Totally. Most of my films are distributed overseas. My stage name is Celestial. You can Google me if you’d like.”
“Wow,” James says, trying to recover without looking stupid. “That’s . . . amazing. I’m impressed. And you?” he says, tearing his eyes away to glance at Michael, who is standing casually, sipping his mojito with one hand in his pocket.
“Me? I’m a director and producer.
Her
director and producer.” Michael is eyeing Lauren, who has said nothing and looks scared.
“That’s . . . Wow, that’s pretty cool. Nothing like working with your spouse,” James retorts.
“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” Kennedy says. She sips at her drink, savoring the taste.
“What is that you’re drinking?” Lauren asks, attempting to steer the conversation to higher ground.
“It’s called a Piece of Ass. Would you like a taste?”
Lauren almost chokes on her tongue as Kennedy shrugs innocently.
Chapter 7
An hour later.
Michael and Kennedy have danced a few songs, made their way to the fourth floor, where they’ve chatted with some more folks, and taken a seat by the window to enjoy the sights. The party is nice—not so crowded that you can’t move, a nice mix of intellectuals and creative types, and the music not so loud that you can’t hear your own conversations. Michael gets up to refresh their drinks. He stands several-people deep by the bar, awaiting his turn behind a tall, honey-complexioned woman wearing a red halter cocktail dress. Her hair is wavy and travels halfway down her back. She gets her drink and turns, finding herself eye to eye with Michael. He scans her up and down quickly, noting her curves and straight white teeth. She is, in a word, gorgeous.
“That looks dee-lish,” he says.
“You referring to my Cosmo?” she asks, beaming a dazzling smile.
“Of course.” Michael laughs.
“Let me check.” She takes a quick sip, swallows, and nods her head. “I highly recommend it.”
“I’m usually a mojito kind of guy, but I’m tempted to try something new tonight.”
“You should. You won’t be disappointed.”
Michael sticks out his hand. “I’m Michael.”
“Makayla.” She places her hand in his. Her flesh is warm, and Michael takes several seconds to squeeze it. “How does it feel to be the topic of conversation?” she asks.
“Excuse me?”
“You’re with the stunning black woman over there. Everyone’s talking about the two of you.”
Michael replies, “You don’t say?”
“Yep. Word is she’s an adult-film star and you’re her director.”
“All true,” Michael says.
“Interesting,” Makayla says, eying him up and down in a flirty kind of way. “Some of us were wondering what kind of films she does?”
Michael gives the bartender his order before turning his attention back to Makayla. “Celestial is known for her girl-on-girl movies. You can say that’s her specialty.”
“Really? No
guy
-on-girl action?” she asks.
Michael shakes his head. “Nope, I’m old-fashioned. The only man I want inside of her is me.”
Makayla laughs. “I see. But it’s okay with you if another female taps that—excuse my French—ass?”
Michael doesn’t blink. “Most definitely. It’s something that gets us both off.” He lets that sink in for a moment before continuing. “It’s a win-win, you feel me?” Makayla nods. “So, wha’d’ya say I introduce you to a real-life porn star?”
“Girl, you are working that dress!”
Makayla and Michael have rejoined Kennedy, who is perched on a plush, forest green love seat.
“Thank you.”
“No, I mean it. That thing is fierce, and you’ve got the body to go along with it.”
Kennedy smiles while making eye contact with Makayla.
“You’re doing some damage in that little thing of yours, too.”
Makayla feigns surprise.
“This li’l thing?”
Michael shakes his head. Prince segues into Pebbles.
“Dance with me?” Kennedy says to Makayla while handing her drink to Michael.
“Sure.”
“That is, if you don’t mind being seen with a porno star.”
“Oh, I don’t mind one bit,” Makayla says with a sparkle in her eyes.
The two women walk to the dance area and begin to move. At first they dance around one another, keeping their distance, not invading each other’s space. But as the song progresses, the rhythm and beat take over, and Kennedy finds herself shifting closer. Makayla is watching Kennedy as she swings her hips, zeroing in on her smile as she grooves to the song. She leans in, stroking Kennedy’s forearms upward until her hands are on her shoulders, then her neck. Kennedy closes her eyes and shudders from Makayla’s touch, commanding her body forward; Michael and the rest of the throng have quieted their conversation to watch the unfolding action.
Kennedy and Makayla are eye to eye now, heads and necks moving to the beat as the two women revolve around one another. Six inches separate them as Kennedy parts her lips while inhaling a breath. Makayla does the same, using the tip of her tongue to wipe at the flesh of her lip. Kennedy is watching Makayla closely, observing the movement of pink tongue as it flickers against moist brown lips. Makayla directs her stare down, taking in the fullness of Kennedy’s breasts, her nipples that have sprouted like a flower in the springtime and are struggling against the material of her minidress. Pebbles and Babyface take it to the bridge, and Makayla grasps Kennedy around the waist, pulling her close. Their bosoms touch, and it seems to Kennedy that all activity on the horizon has ceased. The ebony woman with her hair cut dangerously close to her skull and the heavily painted-on gold lip gloss has evaporated. The twin, coked-up white models, poster children for the Dolce & Gabbana Women’s Collection—their chatter ceases, as does their motion. And even Michael, caught leaning forward, mojito poised at his lips, glass tilted, ice cubes twinkling, seems to have faded into darkness. Now it’s just Kennedy and this lovely creature, Makayla, and the feel of her breasts, soft and warm, on her own. And Kennedy experiences a quickening desire to close the gap farther still and feel this delightful thing’s hot breath on her own mouth and tongue. But instead she smiles, gliding back to a safe, respectable distance, Pebbles morphing into Earth, Wind & Fire, and now her horizon is in motion once again.
Kennedy makes eye contact with her husband, and in that unspoken language they’ve shared and perfected over the years, she lets him know that it’s time to leave.
Michael understands perfectly.
Chapter 8
The room key slides into the card reader and the LED blinks green. Michael pushes open the door and stands aside. Kennedy enters, followed by Makayla.
The drapes are open, providing an unobstructed view of the city. Makayla utters “Wow” while going to the window. The Hudson is dark, almost black, and moving slowly, giving the illusion of molten lava. A large cruise ship, its lights ablaze, has docked at the Manhattan Terminal adjacent to the West Side Highway. Michael excuses himself to grab some ice. He returns a moment later as Kennedy is pulling off her boots and getting comfortable on the bed.
“What can I get you to drink?” Michael asks of Makayla, opening the walnut minibar near the television and dresser.
“I’m in the mood for a Piece of Ass!” She flicks a glance over at Kennedy as she laughs.
“Oh, BEHAVE!” Michael replies in his best Austin Powers voice. He bends down and checks out the minibar.
“A beer is fine,” she says, taking off her pumps and reclining on the chaise lounge, crossing her legs at the ankles.
“Ken?” Michael asks his wife.
“Mind whipping up a rum and coke?”
“Sure, baby.” Michael fixes her drink. He hands it over and takes a beer for himself.
“A toast,” he says, holding his bottle in the air. “To new friends . . . and swimming with bowlegged women!”
“Ignore him!” Kennedy shouts. Makayla takes a swig from her beer and tips her head back, closing her eyes.
“Mmm, this hit the spot!” she says. Kennedy sips her drink as Michael goes to the clock radio and flips it on, searching for an appropriate station. He finds one—smooth jazz—and turns it up as Kennedy raises her glass overhead and moves it along to the slow jam.
“Can you dim the lights?” Makayla asks, opening her eyes to look at Michael. “That is, if you don’t mind.”
“Good idea,” Kennedy seconds.
Michael switches on a lamp by the bed and cuts off the overhead light. He takes off his jacket, draping it on the edge of the bed by his wife’s feet. He leans against the wall, dividing his stare between Makayla, who is watching him, and Kennedy, who is observing Makayla.
“This is . . . nice,” Makayla says.
Kennedy considers her for a moment more before rising from the bed and going to the chaise lounge. Makayla tracks her silently. She sits on the edge of the lounger, draping an arm over Makayla’s legs. Makayla tips her beer up to her lips and takes a swig. She swallows hard, staring into Kennedy’s soft eyes. Makayla puts the bottle down as Kennedy scoots up, positioning herself near Makayla’s thighs. Kennedy uses her fingernail to trace figure eights on Makayla’s honey-colored skin. She focuses on the action for a moment, no one saying a word, the music soft, hypnotic, and soothing. Makayla emits a mellifluous moan.
Kennedy finds the hem of Makayla’s dress. Her fingers glide lightly over the fabric, meandering around in no confident path, following the inside edge to her silky thigh but then moving upward toward that space where thighs converge. Makayla reaches for Kennedy’s free hand. For a moment her fingers are poised just above the wrist, not touching skin. But then she does make contact, ever so softly, tracing the lines that Kennedy’s raised veins compose.
Makayla’s other hand goes to Kennedy’s shoulder. She draws a line down along her forearm, going unhurriedly, and then back up, head cocked to the side comfortably, observing Kennedy, and Michael, who continues to stand by the wall. They make eye contact—Michael and Makayla—and she gives him an affectionate smile that he returns.
Kennedy’s hand is in Makayla’s lap. It is warm, soft, and she rakes several fingers along Makayla’s abdomen, feeling her navel. She moves her fingers upward, leisurely, not in any rush, listening to the sound of Makayla’s breathing, which has its own tempo and rhythm. Makayla’s fingers have moved laterally—she holds her hand flat as she touches the side of Kennedy’s breast. Her digits glide from smooth, mocha skin to black fabric and back to smooth, mocha flesh again, experiencing the rise of Kennedy’s nipple as she makes contact.
Kennedy’s stare goes to Makayla’s. She leans forward, and Makayla comes off the chaise lounge, meeting her in the space between. Their mouths touch, and they kiss, softly at first, as Kennedy’s hand comes up to stroke Makayla’s face—soft, moist lips pressing against one another. Makayla opens her mouth, and Kennedy slips her tongue inside.
The feeling is extraordinary. Her warm breath is in Kennedy’s face. Their cheeks are touching. Makayla’s tongue unites with Kennedy’s as they press against one another. Their tongues are accommodating; they glide along each other, slowly flicking against the fleshy surfaces as their bodies drive together. They continue the dance with their mouths, their lips, their tongues, exploring one another as Kennedy takes Makayla’s upper lip into her mouth, tugging lightly on the flesh between her teeth. Makayla responds: a quick guttural moan as her bottom lip is devoured. Lips are consumed like flavorsome meat, cooked to perfection, a savory filet.
Makayla’s hands go to Kennedy, wrapping around her neck as the two women continue to kiss. They are hungry, Michael can see. Their moans become louder, their movements more frantic. Kennedy reaches for the top of Makayla’s dress and pulls it down her chest. Her breasts come into view, dark emergent nipples that Kennedy rushes to. Makayla is pushed back into the precincts of the chaise lounge as Kennedy licks at Makayla’s flesh, long full strokes of her tongue around dark patches of areola, twirling each nipple between her fingers, pulling them taut. Kennedy puts one breast in her mouth, then another, sucking on them madly as Makayla grabs her head in her hands. Her legs come off the chaise and wrap themselves around Kennedy’s waist as Makayla bares Kennedy’s breasts. Then it’s Makayla’s turn to feast, and she does so with a vigor that causes Kennedy to cry out in a way that makes Michael ache with desire.
Michael watches intently, hand snaking down to feel himself growing hard under his suit pants. He moves to the bed and sits down, removes his shoes and gets comfortable, observing Kennedy reach under Makayla’s short dress. Her legs part as Kennedy’s fingers find their mark, feeling her moist sex beneath her panties. Makayla emits a low groan of satisfaction.
“Oh my God,” she utters as Kennedy massages the wet spot, slithering down until her knees are on the carpet, her near-perfect ass cheeks rising from her minidress. She grasps Makayla’s panties and slips them down her legs. When they are off, she tosses them in the direction of Michael, who catches them easily, staring absorbedly at the scene before him. Kennedy next grasps Makayla’s ankles and parts her legs. Michael spies a narrow patch of pubic hair, but then his wife’s face is lowered as Makayla grabs Kennedy’s head with intention.
“Oh my God!” she utters again, head thrust back, eyes rolling back into their sockets as Kennedy tastes her, licking at her clit before slipping her tongue down and between the slippery folds. Michael removes his shirt and slips off his pants and boxer shorts, before lying back down. He wraps his fingers around the girth of his rock-hard cock and begins to stroke himself, his stare riveted to the activity. Kennedy feeds on Makayla as she groans incessantly, sucking on her flesh as if this were her final meal. Her head is relentlessly in motion as Makayla, legs splayed wide, ass and pelvis bucking to Kennedy’s thrusts of her wonderful tongue, holds her head as she feasts voraciously. After a time, Kennedy rises; she turns to Michael, her chest heaving, lips and chin glistening with Makayla’s juice, and says to her husband, “You need to taste this.”
Michael meets Makayla’s stare. Her gaze flickers for an instant, roaming over his taut upper body and down to his hardened dick with its bulbous head. Makayla exhales a breath and licks her lips, contemplating all that he has to offer.
“May I?” Michael asks, his voice just above a near whisper.
Makayla answers simply. “Hurry, please. . . .”
Kennedy rises as Michael comes off the bed. She takes him in her palm and gives him a quick squeeze. He kneels, hands roaming over Makayla’s thighs, abs, and breasts. He kisses her softly, their lips and tongues becoming acquainted before his head dips down. Michael kisses her clit, flicks his tongue against her hot flesh, tasting her sweetness as Makayla opens her thighs wide, reaching for his head and pushing it down, commanding him to consume her.
Michael does.
He sucks on her, first slurping in one side of her labia before feasting on the other, opening his mouth wide to feed on her entire sex, consuming her whole. Makayla is beyond heaven. Her head is thrashing about, her hips bucking as she grits her teeth.
“You are gonna make me come!” she squeals, eyes roaming over to Kennedy, who has gotten naked and lies splayed on the bed, fingers embedded within her own slippery folds. Michael increases his licking, using his fingers to spread Makayla’s pussy wide as he fucks her opening with his tongue, digging deep inside of her, lapping at her with all the fury he can muster. Makayla rises off the chaise lounge as she unleashes, her pelvis bucking in a frenzy of passion. She cries out as Michael laps up her juice. Her sap glazes his chin and mouth, and Makayla collapses back into the lounger, clamping her legs shut as she turns on her side, shivering as the last of the delicious pleasure bombs go off inside of her, rippling outward to far-flung nerve endings that register the molten fire.
Michael reaches for his wife, and they kiss, mouths ajar as they savor Makayla on their tongues and lips, her scent hanging thick in the air. The music envelops them like an old, comfortable blanket. It is a slow, steady groove, a chill-out rhythm that is ideal for what’s to come next.