On the Line (8 page)

“So you think that I can't handle you?”

I knew he was eager to prove me wrong. “You may be raring to go and have gusto, but I will turn your young ass out,” I stated as the waitress placed another drink before me. As soon as I finished my second drink, I was feeling adventurous and daring.

“Come on, let's dance,” I said, feeling the need to express myself on the dance floor. Vince took me by the hand and we went to the center of the dance floor. He started to dance but I stopped him. I motioned for him to lean forward so that I could speak in his ear.

“Follow me,” I said, and led him to a darker spot on the dance floor that was toward a back wall. I pushed his back up against the wall, placed my ass on his dick and began moving sensually to the rhythm of the Pussycat Dolls singing “Loosen Up My Buttons.”

“Oh, shit,” he said as he put his hands on my hips. I kept pressing myself against him because I enjoyed the feel of his erection.

“Caress my ass!” I shouted out loud over the music.

“Damn, I didn't know you could move like this.” Vince laughed. I shook my ass a little faster and a little harder and I felt Vince buckle at the knees. I laughed. I then turned to face him.

“I told you that you couldn't handle this pussy.” I knew I had him in the palm of my hand. Vince had a devilish look in his eyes.

“So, let's see how much of a freak you really are.” He took me by the hand. We walked over to the bar and Vince said something to the bartender. The next thing I knew, the bartender wiped down the bar and Vince hoisted me up onto the bar and asked me to lie flat on my back. At first I wasn't going to do it, but I decided to go with the flow.

“Relax, okay?” He rolled up my shirt to my bra line which left my chocolate skin and belly button exposed. The bartender poured alcohol inside my navel and my skin got goose bumps. Vince then slurped up the alcohol as it ran off the sides of my abdomen and down toward my paradise. It was an erotic sensation. I arched up my back and cradled the back of his head as he continued to slurp up the alcohol off of my skin.

“You are driving me wild and I want you so damn bad!” I was half laughing and half talking.

“So what are we going to do about that?” he asked. “Because you're hot and you're driving me wild. I'm going to bust if you keep on teasing me like this. I want you.”

At that moment I sat upright. Vince locked his arms around me and we began kissing. The way he kissed me made my womanhood explode. His lips were soft and tasted sweet. I placed my cheek against his and spoke purposely in his ear.

“I want to ride that long dick of yours. I've thought about your dick in ways that are sinful and wicked. My body has been craving you. I don't know why, but it is.” At that moment Vince helped me get down from the bar.

“Come on, let's get out of here,” he said.

When we exited the club it was about one o' clock in the morning and the streets were still jam-packed with partygoers on foot and in cars. We walked back to the car, got in, and I let the convertible top down on the Mustang. Once the convertible top was completely down Vince put his hand on my thigh.

“Look at me,” he said. I complied, and read his movements. He wanted to kiss me.

“Don't be afraid,” Vince whispered. He must have picked up on my uneasiness. I closed my eyes and went with the moment. When his lips touched mine, I felt an electric current shoot throughout my body.
Oh, Crystal,
I said to myself,
this young man is going to get your ass in trouble.
I knew what I was doing, but I didn't want to stop. To be honest, it felt too damn good to stop.

“Woo,” I giggled. “We'd better hurry up and get back.” I pulled the car out of the parking space and headed back toward the hotel. We reached a stoplight and Vince started kissing on me again. A car with two young ladies about Vince's age pulled up next to us and blew their horn. I pushed Vince away for a minute and looked at the two women who were enjoying our public display of affection.

“Work him over, girl,” the driver said.

I smiled and replied, “He can't handle this.” Both of the girls laughed. The light turned green and they pulled off. I unfastened Vince's slacks and freed his manhood and was stroking it the same way I saw him do it in my kitchen.

“I want to see what he's working with,” the female driver boldly asked as I pulled up to the next stoplight.

“It's out right now, come take a look.” I was being very spontaneous and very wild. I was excited in a way that I'd never been before. It was as if someone else had taken over my body. I didn't have any fears or inhibitions. The driver got out of the car, walked over and peeked down at Vince's manhood, which was standing tall.

“Ooh, damn. You sure you can handle that, girl?” asked the driver.

“Oh, I got this,” I responded back with a healthy laugh. “At the next stoplight I'm going to suck on it,” I said, and then pulled off.

“You're going to what?” Vince asked as we sped down the road.

“You heard me. I'm going to suck on it at the next stoplight.” I was feeling a sense of freedom. “You're not afraid, are you?”

“No, but—”

“But nothing—let that seat all the way back so I can get down to business at the next stoplight,” I ordered him.

“You're going to let them watch?” he asked.

“Damn right I am,” I answered. I couldn't wait to taste him for the first time.

“Oh my God, you're a bigger freak than I thought you were,” Vince stated as he let the seat all the way back.

When we arrived at the next stoplight I put the car in Park, positioned myself on my knees above his cock, and began stroking and sucking on him. I was putting my jaw, hand and shoulders into it. I heard the car with the two girls pull up next to us.

“Damn, girl. Kill his shit,” yelled out the driver and her friend. She made me laugh so I stopped. The two of them were looking at me with both envy and astonishment. I laughed because it was such a crazy thing to do.

“Girl, I have to give it to you. You're one bad bitch,” yelled the driver before she took off again. I got back in the driver's seat, put the car in gear and continued on. I glanced in the rearview mirror and was thankful that no other cars or the police, for that matter, were around us.

“That is the wildest thing I've ever done,” I said to Vince. “I don't believe that I just did that.” I felt a sense of edginess.

“That was some next level shit there,” Vince said. I had to admit it was more exciting than I thought it would be. I never knew that I would enjoy having someone watch me while I was being intimate.”

“Wait until you see the levels I'm going to take you to when we get in the hotel room.”

 

We entered my hotel room and I put the Do Not Disturb sign on the doorknob. Vince and I stripped out of our clothes and for the first time I saw how completely magnificent his body was. I positioned myself on the bed and opened my legs.

“Come murder this pussy,” I said as I caressed myself and exposed my clitoris to him. He was so ready to please me. The moment his hot tongue brushed across my clit, I exploded. Vince was eager to get inside of me and I wanted to feel him, but first I reached for my purse and pulled out a condom for him. He looked disappointed, but it was either put it on or get nothing at all. Once Vince had the condom in place, I made him lie on his back. I got on top of him and rode him hard. I had several orgasms and then one explosive one that fired me up. Vince held a magnificent erection which I enjoyed feeling especially when we did it doggy style. I made him pull my hair as he pounded me. After a long, gratifying session, I finally made Vince explode inside of me by squeezing his dick really hard with my pussy muscles. I was satisfied but Vince wasn't. He wanted to taste me some more, so I got comfortable and allowed him to delight in my pussy paradise until every nerve in my body felt as if it had been struck by lightning. When I finally had enough, I snuggled up to Vince and we both fell fast asleep.

So there you have it, Joy. I'm sleeping with my stepson and I'm enjoying it. We don't fly back home for another two days and I'm going to enjoy every minute of it. I have got to go now. Vince is touching himself in his sleep and I feel like committing dick murder.

 

I drop the e-mail like it had caught on fire. Dayum! Macy couldn't hit those bleep buttons fast enough. I clear my throat. “There you have it, listeners. I do hope that this sister is listening. You know you can't keep this up. At some point you
are
going to have to make up your mind. This is a fatality waiting to happen. We want to hear
from
you not
about
you. Get my drift? Well, WHOT family, looks like we're out of time. We were rocking and rolling tonight. And we'll be back tomorrow for some more action-packed drama. So, until next time, remember life is what you make it. This is Joy Newhouse, Lata!”

I snatch off my headphones and drop them on top of the console and fall back in my seat.
Oh what a night,
to borrow a line from the mighty Dells. I'm still shook up about the attempted suicide and the chick with her stepson. What is wrong with people?

Macy comes into the studio and pulls up a seat next to me. “You okay?”

I nod numbly. “Yeah. I'm good.” I turn to look at her. “Some show, huh?”

“Yeah. Wanna grab some coffee?”

I shake my head. “No. I'm going to go on home.”

She pats my shoulder. “See you tomorrow, then. And don't sweat Bledsoe. You know he's not ready for prime time.” She forces a laugh then pushes up from the chair and leaves.

I sit there for a few minutes until I hear movement at the door and see Tommy, who heads up the gospel show until the morning drive, come through the door.

“Wild show, Joy,” he says, and walks in.

“Always,” I chirp, forcing cheer and nonchalance into my voice.

He grins. “Princess of the airwaves.”

I get up. “Have a good show, Tommy. Maybe you can tell your holy listeners to say some prayers or sing some songs for mine.”

He laughs from deep in his gut. “Your folks need more than song and prayer.”

Humph. He's probably right.

I gather up my belongings and walk out. Before I leave I go to my small office and pick up my bag of mail. I figure I'll read a few letters before bed. That usually helps to relax me.

I
putter around the kitchen, waiting for the pot of water to boil for some tea, then take my cup of chamomile tea to the bedroom. On my way I notice a note under my front door. Frowning, I go to the door and pick up the folded piece of white paper and open it.

His number was written at the bottom. I didn't know whether to feel good or scared. Was this brother stalking me? When did he leave the note? I'd swear it wasn't there when I came in, but maybe it was. I shake my head, determined to toss off the sense of unease, and go to my bedroom.

I probably should have listened to all of Macy's warnings about letting strange men into my apartment. She had good reason to warn me.

About four years ago, just when my show was really getting hot and my ratings were on and popping, there was this guy who would be standing outside the studio at the end of my shift. At first I thought nothing of it. Living in New York, there were folks out at all times of the night. But after about the third or fourth night, it started to give me the creeps. Then he turned up in the coffee shop that I went to one morning after work. He offered to buy me a cup of coffee and I said no thanks. That's when things started getting really weird.

Letters started arriving at the studio, addressed to me, telling me how much he admired me. Then they escalated to how much he thought of me—all the time—and if I gave him a chance, he knew he could make me happy. I suppose the final straw was the package that was delivered to the front desk of my building. Inside was a diamond ring and a note asking me to marry him!

I freaked and started having security escort me to my car, and the doorman of my building inform me of anyone coming to see me. Then the flowers started arriving—every day at the office with a note saying that I was the love of his life and he couldn't live without me.

I got to a point where I couldn't sleep, I wasn't eating and was so jittery I could barely concentrate on the show. Macy finally convinced me to go to the police.

It was the flowers that finally nailed the nut. He used his credit card! Can you believe it? The experience rattled me for a long time and now this note brought it all rushing back. But I wasn't going to let it get to me. If things got out of hand I knew exactly what to do. I had no intention of going down that road again.

Shaking off thoughts of the past, I set my tea down, pull off my clothes and crawl under the sheets with my bag of mail. Propping myself up with pillows, I take out a random letter and spread it open on my lap.

Dear Joy,

Months ago I shared a secret with you that not even my best friend was aware of. Over the years I have listened to your show and felt as if you would understand the delicate dilemma I found myself in.

Since you receive so many letters, let me refresh your memory.

I remember the words as if they were just written…

 

You are the only one who can help me. My secret is too private to tell even my best friend. I'm in love with my boss, a wonderful, studious man who has no idea of my feelings. His mind is consumed with his classes and writing a grant to study the migration of dinosaurs. He's ten years older, single and a professor of paleontology at the local university. Unfortunately, the school has a strict no dating/fraternization of subordinates policy for fear of sexual harassment suits.

I love my job and I just purchased my first home. I'm scared that if I let Professor X know how I feel, I run the risk of embarrassing both of us, putting a strain on our wonderful working relationship or, worse, losing my job if anyone finds out.

For the last couple of weeks we've been working long hours after work to get ready for a convention in town in which he is the program chair. When he's reading something over my shoulder and I smell his woodsy cologne, I have this strange urge to grab him by the tie and pull him to me and damn the consequences.

The need to tell him is becoming stronger day by day. Matters have become even more urgent since the single sister, Miss P for pushy, of a fellow professor moved here six weeks ago and now has her eyes on him. She always finds a way to touch him when she stops by. His tie needs straightening or there's a piece of nonexistent lint on the sleeve of his jacket.

When those incidences occur, he looks a bit flustered but flattered by the attention of a beautiful woman. It galls me to admit it, but I want you to have all the facts so you can help me. My looks are only average, but I know I can love him better than any woman in the world.

In the three years that I've been Professor X's executive assistant, the only dates I know that he has had have been those of a business nature. He and Miss P have gone out three times in the past two weeks.

There's nothing to stop her from going after him. If I wait much longer I might lose him…if I haven't already. If I thought she really cared, I'd leave him alone. She doesn't. She's one of those women who crave the attention of men. I know for a fact she's seeing another man, and I heard her say on her cell phone that she was just having fun with the professor.

I'm torn between telling him what I know about her, and telling him how I feel about him. Both carry tremendous risks. Or would silence be better? Please tell me what to do.

Torn and tormented,

M. from Dallas

 

Remember me now? I hope so, because I'll never forget you. You told me to follow my heart, to risk it all, to do whatever it took to let him know how I felt. I trusted you and you know what happened? Well, let me tell you!

 

I knew when I woke up that fateful Saturday morning that life for me would never be the same. Throwing back the covers, I went to the bathroom to shower and go over my plan one last time.

Professor X, Carter Watkins, was coming for a working breakfast and, if things went as planned, a lot more. I shivered as the hot water ran down my body, my overactive imagination conjuring up images of Carter's lips and long-fingered hands doing the same.

Shutting off the water, I dried myself, then rubbed into my skin a moisturizing cream scented with violet, freesia and amber. Even after Carter left, I wanted him to remember the exotic fragrance and think of me, crave me.

Finished, I put on a sheer apricot thong and a floral sundress with a built-in bra, capped sleeves and a flared skirt that stopped five inches above my knees. In the office I'd always dressed conservatively, never showing off too much skin.

Even if the university hadn't been conservative, I was bought up to dress and carry myself in a professional manner, and always remain a lady and above reproach.

Until today.

I turned from side to side in front of the full-length mirror in the bedroom and smiled with approval. Carter would certainly get an eyeful. In all the years I'd been Carter's executive assistant, I'd never worn sleeveless blouses without a jacket or sweater.

Turning away, I hurried to the kitchen. Putting on a long apron, I started breakfast. Being a GRITS woman, “girl raised in the South,” I could throw down with the best of them. When the doorbell rang thirty minutes later, I had just taken the biscuits out of the oven. My heart lurched, then lurched again as the chime sounded once more.

Was this too bold a move? Carter, after all, was ultraconservative. All of his clothes were black or brown or navy-blue, his shirts button-down and white. When the sound came for a third time, I finally moved. It was too late. Two days before, Joy had said to risk it all for love in an answer to my letter on her Web site.

Taking a deep breath, I opened the door. Carter blinked, his mouth gaping just the tiniest bit. His dark eyes widened, then traveled slowly from my face with a touch more makeup, to the swell of my breasts over the décolletage, down to my feet in three-inch-heeled sandals, then back up. His gaze stayed on my breasts.

It was all I could do not to squirm. I hadn't expected to feel uncomfortable. “Good morning, Professor Watkins.”

His head came up. He was good-looking rather than handsome, with a trim mustache over a surprisingly sensual mouth. His skin was the tempting color of dark chocolate. This morning he wore one of his favorite navy-blue wool blazers, white shirt and no tie, which must have made him feel half-dressed.

He swallowed. “Good morning, Ms. Hill,” he said, then moistened his lips as if his mouth had gone dry. “You look different. In a nice way,” he hastened to add.

“Thank you. Please come in.” I stepped aside. “I could say the same about you and no tie.”

His hand went to his throat. I could see just the barest hint of thick, black chest hair. I almost licked my lips. “I hope you don't mind,” he said.

“Not at all,” I assured him, taking the opportunity to touch him lightly on the arm. My reward was a timid smile.

I closed the door and took a moment to compose myself. Carter was studying the African art I collected and had incorporated into the decorating scheme of my house. As I joined him in the great room, he was standing before a fertility god.

I flushed. My mother thought the piece indecent, but it was either let me keep the family heirloom or keep it herself, since it passed from the eldest child of each generation.

“I didn't know you were interested in such things,” Carter said, then he lifted his attention from the long appendage of the statue to me.

I flushed again, then stammered, “It—it belonged to my paternal grandmother.”

“Did it work?”

“She had twelve children,” I told him with a smile. “She lived to see all of them finish college and get married. My father is the oldest.”

“And the husband?”

Their children had always maintained he'd worn himself out. “He died shortly after the last child was born.”

“But with a smile on his face, no doubt.”

My lips twitched. Carter had a wicked and unexpected sense of humor at times. “No doubt.” I waved my arm toward the kitchen to the right. “Breakfast is ready. We can eat in there, then work on the patio by the pool.”

His hand closed around my bare arm, causing my skin to heat. “Smells good, but not as good as you.” He leaned closer.

My body trembled. “Th-thank you.”

“Thank you.” He seated me in a padded chair, which was a good thing because my knees were shaking.

“Is there anything I can get?” he asked, still standing beside me.

“Noth—” I began, then tried to rise. “I forgot. The biscuits!”

His callused hand settled gently on my bare shoulder. “You've done enough. I'll get them.”

He filled the pewter bread basket with the biscuits and set it on the round glass-topped table, then took his seat.

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

Briefly he looked away. “I'll let you know.”

Becoming more puzzled by the second, I simply stared at him. Then it hit me. He didn't want to leave
her.
My heart sank.

“Do you want me to say grace?” he asked.

Feeling my throat clog with tears of anger and regret, I simply nodded.
Too late. I had waited too long.

Carter finished the blessing and forked a slice of ham, a big helping of scrambled eggs and a biscuit on his plate. He chewed with relish. “This is delicious. If I'd known you cooked this well, I would have invited myself over long ago.”

I tried to take comfort in the fact that he was enjoying my food, but it was a poor substitute for him enjoying the taste of me. “Now that you do, you're always welcome.”

“I might take you up on that,” he said, looking straight at me. “The food is wonderful.” His hand circled the glass of juice, but he didn't pick it up. He seemed lost in thought.

He's probably thinking of not having her with him all summer,
I thought. By then she'd be long gone, and Carter would be nursing a broken heart. Even more reason for me not to be there to watch him daily, yearning for a woman he never had a chance with.

The doorbell rang, startling me. I swung around.

“I'll clean up while you see to your guest.” Carter began clearing the table, something my male cousins would never have done in a million years.

The doorbell came again, prompting me to move. “Thank you. I'll be back in a minute.”

Crossing the great room, I couldn't shake the feeling that someone had interrupted something important. I reached for the doorknob, planning to get rid of whoever as quickly as possible.

I gasped. My eyes widened in surprise. Hilary Simms, the beautiful “other” woman, stood on my doorstep, dressed in a brown tulle lace camisole and brown pin-striped pants with a slim belt that cinched her tiny waist.

Hanging from her slim shoulder was a multicolored print cotton and brown leather handbag with bamboo trim. I'd seen the shoulder bag in a catalog I loved to dream over, but could never afford anything inside. The ensemble shouted couture, style, elegance. I felt dowdy in my off-the-rack dress from a department store.