The Cheating Curve (11 page)

Sean burrowed his nose between his wife’s legs, rubbing the hood of her clitoris with the tip of his nose. The strong scent of her sex excited him.

Lang moaned, this time for herself.

Sean slid one finger inside his wife. She was sticky and wet. She instinctively squeezed her muscles, gripping his finger. He slid in another one.

“You sure that’s what you want?”

“Yes, I’m sure, Dante.”

“Get down on your knees and beg me again.”

Lang did as she was told. “Please, Dante, I want you to fuck me. I need you to. Please.” Tears streamed down her face, which was pressed against his knees. “I want you so bad it hurts. I ache to feel you inside me.”

“Um, Sean,” Lang said, choking back tears and bending down slightly to hold his face in her hands. “All this is so sweet. I’m—I’m moved.”

“Hey, baby,” Sean said, standing up. “Why the tears?”

“I—I—I,” she stuttered.

He rested her head on his chest. “Shhhh, you’re just tired. Let me bathe you.”

Lang stepped into the steamy tub. She stood there for a few seconds, acquainting her lukewarm body with the sweltering temperature before sitting down in jasmine-vanilla-infused water.

Sean lathered the seaweed sponge with Carol’s Daughter’s hypnotically sweet Almond Dream body cleansing gel and massaged her neck. He took his time gently washing his wife’s arms, underarms, her breasts and underneath her breasts, her stomach, and her back. He methodically rubbed and rinsed and rubbed and rinsed.

Lang closed her eyes and moaned. She was perspiring.

“You okay, baby?”

“I’m more than okay. The bath is perfect.”

“Should I add some cool water?”

“No, my muscles are a little sore. I need this hot soak. Thank you, baby.”

Sean handed his wife a glass of champagne to quench her thirst. Lang sipped slowly. She’d already drunk more than her share of bubbly.

Sean generously soaped the seaweed sponge and gently washed between his wife’s legs. Lang closed her eyes.

“Unzip my pants,” Dante commanded, looking down at Lang on her knees.

Lang let Dante’s pants drop down to his ankles as she moved her mouth toward his crotch.

“I’ve sampled enough of that already,” he said, pushing her face away. “That’s not what I want.”

He pulled Lang up by her arm and walked her over to his stark-white leather sofa. “Take off your panties and lift up your skirt.”

Dante leaned a bare-bottomed Lang over the back of his couch. Dante left Lang exposed as he walked over to get the Magnums from his walnut coffee-table drawer.

Dante stood behind Lang fully erect.

Sean scrubbed down the fronts and backs of his wife’s thighs, her calves, and the bottoms of her feet. He carefully washed between each of her toes before helping her stand up.

“This is what you wanted, right?” Dante asked, fiercely ramming himself inside Lang.

“Yes!” Lang screamed.

“You begged for it, didn’t you?” he asked, grabbing a handful of her hair.

“Yes!” she screamed again.

“You like it rough, don’t you?” he asked, speeding up his rhythm.

“I love it rough,” she growled.

Dante smacked Lang’s ass.

“Harder!” she yelled.

He smacked her ass so hard his palms stung.

“Hurt me,” she pleaded.

Sean filled and refilled a ceramic pitcher with soothing warm water, carefully rinsing off his wife’s glistening body.

“You’re so gentle with me,” Lang said to Sean appreciatively.

“You’re my queen,” Sean said, tenderly toweling his wife dry. “I wouldn’t know how else to treat you.”

T
hanksgiving was only two weeks away. Fame’s goal was not to have any musical projects lingering after December fifteenth so his family and the holiday season would have his undivided attention. Whatever jobs weren’t completed by then would just get shelved until the third week of January. Fame always devoted the first two weeks of the year entirely to his family, no exceptions. He believed it brought him good fortune for the year to come.

The S.O.S. Band’s “Just Be Good to Me” blared in the
C
room of Fame’s recording studio. It was just a little after midnight when Fame pushed the up-and-coming R&B singer’s head down in his lap as he slouched down on the black leather couch with his eyes closed. Fame fingered her weave tracks as he thought about sampling the hook and maybe even chopping up other parts of the song.

Friends tell me I am crazy and am wasting time with you…

“Faaaame,” she whined, lifting up her head and finger combing her hair back into place. “I came over here to sing, not to suck.”

“Look, Daisha, I can’t work until I release some of this stress,” he explained, opening his eyes. “We don’t have all night. Come on, now.”

I don’t care about your other girls. Just be good to me…

Daisha was highly infatuated with Fame. He looked good, smelled good, stacked paper, and had the prettiest, brownest penis she’d ever licked. Her secret fantasy wasn’t sexual though. It was matrimonial. She envisioned Fame running straight into her welcoming embrace after he divorced his dull and boring wife. In the meantime she was more than willing to settle for being his other woman, his official mistress, something more than just one of his jump-offs. She moved her lips toward his.

“Yo, what’s the matter with you?” Fame asked incredulously, wiping his mouth with his hand even though Daisha’s lips had only grazed his right cheek. “You know better than that.”

Daisha was so quick to give him head their very first night in the studio, he didn’t want her lips anywhere near his. There was no telling where her mouth had been or on whom else they’d been.

“What?” Daisha questioned. “My lips are good enough for your dick but not your lips?”

“Not this shit again,” Fame said, clearly annoyed and sitting up straight. “Damn, man, can’t a brother just get some head without all the chitchat?”

Daisha didn’t want to push her luck. Her entire recording career was riding on Fame. She couldn’t believe Aaron “Famous” Anderson was working with her in the first place. She didn’t even have a record deal, yet he’d agreed to work with her. Her manager would kill her if she blew this opportunity. She moved her head back down toward his lap, but this time Fame snatched it right back up.

“Forget it,” he said, standing up, buckling his pants, and walking over to his desk.

“I’m sorry, Fame,” she whined, patting the leather couch, gesturing for him to sit back down.

Fame glanced back at her and then over at the phone on his glass desk. He pushed the speaker button and hit one of the speed-dial buttons. A female with a nasally voice answered the phone on the first ring.

“Where you at?” he asked gruffly.

“Up in Santos with my girls,” she said, clearly happy to hear from Fame. “Q-Tip is spinnin’. You should come through.”

“Nah, I can’t, sweetheart,” he said, looking over at Daisha, who was pouting on the couch. “I’m workin’. I could use a favor though.”

“Oh, really, what kind of a favor?” she asked flirtatiously.

“The mind-blowing kind. How soon can you be here?”

“How soon can you send a car for me?”

“Ten minutes.”

“Can I hang with you in the studio, please?” she asked, pleading more than requesting.

“Nah, not tonight, sweetheart. I got too much work to do. Maybe tomorrow night, though,” he said, sounding more noncommittal than convincing.

“Okay,” she said, obviously disappointed. “Well, you gotta make it quick then. Can you ask the car to wait and make it a round-trip?”

“Not a problem.”

“Can’t wait to taste you, Fame.”

“Can’t wait to be tasted. See you in a minute.”

During that whole conversation, Daisha never took her eyes off Fame. She couldn’t believe he was brazen enough to call the next chick in front of her, and on speakerphone, no less.

“I’m out,” she said, standing up and grabbing her knockoff Fendi purse.

“Leave and don’t come back,” he replied, sliding into the chair behind his desk.

“You can’t be serious, Fame;” Daisha asked in disbelief. “You expect me to just sit here while you get head from some other ho? I don’t think so.”

“Suit yourself,” he said, swiveling in his leather chair. “I can’t work till I get this nut out. I asked you to take care of me, but you didn’t want to, and that’s cool ’cause there’s nothin’ worse than some half-ass head. Shit, that’s worse than no head at all.”

Daisha was livid. First of all, Fame hadn’t
asked
her anything. Secondly, she was more than upset to know that he had this chick on speed dial. She could deal with him having a wife. She reasoned that because they were high school sweethearts, he couldn’t walk away from that situation so easily. Daisha now wondered exactly how many other girls on the side there were.

In Fame’s mind he didn’t have any girls on the side. He didn’t take care of any other woman besides his wife and didn’t care to invest any time or attention in another woman. What he did have, however, was a couple of Xanaxes. No-hassle stress relievers he could call on in a moment’s notice to alleviate his tension.

“I was supposed to work on your stuff tonight, Day, but it’s not like I don’t have other shit to do,” Fame said, typing on his Mac PowerBook. “If you leave now, don’t bother ever to come back. It’s that simple.”

Daisha loved when Famed called her Day. She took it as a pet name, a term of endearment, but really Fame was just being lazy with his tongue, preferring to address her by one syllable instead of two. Daisha sat back down, rolled her eyes, and pouted.

When the other girl strutted in wearing a sequined micro mini dress with a plunging neckline down to her belly button and a faux mink shrug, Fame was still working at his desk. The leggy girl glanced over at Daisha and smirked.

“You want me to do it here?” she purred.

Fame nodded. The other girl unbuckled his jeans and got down on her knees. Fame rested his head on the back of the chair and closed his eyes. Six minutes into her oral exercises, Aminah called.

“Hey, baby,” Fame said calmly.

The girl on her knees sucked even harder as Fame maintained his composure, put his index finger to his lips, silencing her, and then placed his hand on top of her head to steady her rhythm.

“You okay?” he asked, concerned.

“Yeah,” Aminah said, still sounding groggy. “Can’t go back to sleep. You busy?”

“Never too busy for you, baby, you know that.”

“You coming home any time soon?” Aminah asked sleepily.

“Lemme just wrap this up,” Fame said, gripping the back of the girl’s head. “And I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Okay, love you, Fame.”

“Love you, too, baby girl.”

Fame hung up the phone, and three minutes later the girl on her knees swallowed. Fame grabbed some baby wipes from the bottom file cabinet behind his glass desk, cleaned himself off, and buckled up his pants. He handed his “Xanax” cash to pay the driver.

“Get a bottle of something nice to thank your girls for letting me steal you away,” he said, adding three one-hundred dollar bills to her hand.

“Nah, I think I might get me a nice bag or sumthin’,” she said stashing the C-notes into her sequined wristlet.

“Really?” Fame asked, surprised. He couldn’t recall paying less than one thousand dollars for any of Aminah’s bags and was genuinely astonished and shrugged his shoulders.

She hugged him. He hugged her back. Her stilettos clicked out the door, down the elevator, and back into the waiting car.

“All right, shorty, I’m out. Session’s canceled,” Fame said to Daisha.

“Just like that, Fame?” Daisha asked. “I refuse to suck your dick. I watch you get blown by some stank-club ho on-call, and you’re out like that?”

“Yup,” he said, shutting down his laptop. “Wifey calls, I gotta answer. You know the deal.”

Daisha was pissed. She couldn’t wait to get to her day job as an administrative assistant the next morning. She was going to fax Cindy Hunter another blind item.

What superproducer got brain surgery in his studio last night right before going home early to rock his wife back to sleep? He’s so slick he keeps a car waiting to take his jump-off back to the club and then pays in cash so there won’t be a paper trail for anyone to follow. Wifey should finally wake up and follow the yellow brick road to divorce court.

F
ame made it home to Aminah in almost twenty minutes. He headed straight upstairs to their bedroom. Aminah had dozed back off to sleep. He kissed her neck softly. She rolled over.

“Hey, baby,” she said sleepily with her eyes still closed.

Fame kissed her face, her cheeks, the top of her forehead, the bottom of her chin, and then very tenderly on her lips, cupping her face in both of his hands.

“What’s the matter?” he asked her gently.

“Just a dream,” she said, still groggy. “Just a bad dream.”

“Let Daddy make it all better,” he said, lifting up her magenta lace-trimmed Fernando Sánchez chemise. Aminah always dressed for bed.

She moaned as her eyes remained shut.

“Baby girl, I came home to take care of you,” he said before placing his warm mouth over her ample breast. Aminah had more than a mouthful, so Fame took his time giving proper attention to each one.

She moaned again, still not awakening fully.

He slowly slid his index and middle finger inside her as he lightly circled his tongue around her clitoris, beckoning it to come out and dance with his tongue.

Trying to fake an orgasm with Fame was pointless. He was patient and knew exactly what one felt like. He kept his fingers inside Aminah until he felt her muscles rhythmically contract around his fingers.

Fame was merciless. Up and down, up and down and then around and around with his tongue, all while his two fingers moved in circular motion inside his wife. Not too hard. Not too light. Just the right pressure with a steady, consistent rhythm. Aminah instinctively moved her hips in time with his fingers.

“Mmmm,” Aminah moaned.

“Come for Daddy, baby girl.”

A millisecond later, Aminah’s thighs and her bottom lip quivered.

“You all better?” Fame asked as he kissed his wife gently on her mouth.

Aminah nodded and dozed back off into a deep, restful sleep.

Fame stripped down to his boxers and rested his head between his wife’s legs, allowing her tranquilizing scent to lull him to sleep.