Driving Heat (8 page)

Muhfuh? No. Muh. Fuh.
Cynthia stood, shaking her head as she walked to the window.
He’s so different from any of the other guys I’ve dated. From everyone around me really . . . except Lisa. Dynah would probably come around once she got to know him. But Gayle?
Cynthia giggled at the very thought of those two in the same room. Undoubtedly, Gayle would act uppity and Byron would probably call her on it using his colorfully creative language. The more she imagined the encounter, the greater was her desire to see it played out.

“What are you doing?”

She quickly turned around. Byron stood before her in all his naked glory, hands on hips, legs spread, face fixed in a scowl. She gave his body a millisecond perusal. “Oh.”

“Oh? That’s all you’ve got to say?”

“You scared me and I . . .” Another quick look before she averted her gaze and headed toward the bathroom.

Byron caught her arm as she passed him. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I just need to use the restroom.”

“You’re lying. And since we’re planning to get all personal in here tonight, the least we can do is be truthful with each other.”

“It’s nothing.” When she tried jerking her arm away, she found out Byron’s grip was tighter than it felt. “Byron, let go of my arm.”

His look told her that he wasn’t happy, but he released her anyway.

Cynthia closed the bathroom door behind her and sat on the toilet. She made eighty thousand dollars a year. Right now she’d pay half that to have brought in her cell phone to make a call.

What she’d seen was totally not what she’d expected. One of the reasons she’d decided to sleep with a non-DHOP (but would never admit to anyone other than herself) is because of what Lisa had told her about “men from the hood.” According to her, they all had ten-inch dicks, tongues like a serpent, and were freakier than a one-legged dog riding a bicycle at the circus! Since becoming sexually active, only one of the four men with whom she’d been intimate had come close to Lisa’s description, Jayden’s father. It’s part of the reason that to get over him, she had to leave the state. Her college sweetheart and first love had been okay, the one after that was slightly above mediocre (but he was a DHOP, a doctoral graduate at twenty-six, and her parents adored him), and her most recent guy who couldn’t handle the distance could rarely go the distance. Premature ejaculation was the worst. Thank God for oral or an orgasm would never have been achieved. But not only was he a DHOP who fit into her circle perfectly, his parents were noted members of Tennessee’s Black Bourgeois (or “bur-ghees” as Lisa called them), and he was a member of the coveted Sigma Pi Phi. Her mother was furious when they’d split. There had been a horrible fight about it, one of many this mother/daughter duo had endured. Cynthia had come precariously close to being disrespectful and telling her mother to go eff him herself, and had run out of the room to prevent it from happening.

That day on the bus, when she locked eyes with Byron and her body reacted, she attributed part of the reason to what she imagined existed between his big legs. When she turned and found him naked, she’d expected to see a chocolate ruler swinging like a pendulum, or a mushroom-tipped python that could almost be thrown over his shoulder. Instead, she gets a weenie?

“Great,” she muttered, as she sneered at herself in the mirror.
Well, let’s go girl. You can’t hide in here forever.
So she took a deep breath, practiced a smile, and left her sanctuary.

 

 

“There you are.” A totally naked Byron watched a still fully dressed, somewhat wary-looking Cynthia come out of the bathroom. He’d set a mood by turning off all but a light in the corner of the room, turning its beam toward the wall, creating an amber glow. The silky sounds of Trey Songz added to the atmosphere.
Yeah, here comes my cake right now. And I’m about to have a slice.

Cynthia sat on the bed. “Sorry that I took so long.”

“No worries. We’ve got all night.” Her smile was tentative. He placed a hand on her arm, slowly, lightly moving his fingers up and down. For several seconds he lay there, perched up on pillows, watching the shadow of his fingers play across her velvety skin. His eyes went from her arm to her breasts, then her neck to her mouth, until finally their eyes connected. “Look, I only want to do what you want to do. If you’ve changed your mind and want to just talk, we can do that. If you want to lay here and cuddle, that’s cool, too. If you want to go home even, or want me to leave . . . I’ll understand and won’t be mad.”

“This is rather new for me.”

“What, sex?” Byron pulled back his hand, entwined his fingers behind his head. “With an eight-year-old son, you’re not a virgin. Not unless he’s adopted or came by way of the Immaculate Conception.”

“I’m not a virgin.” Cynthia placed her hand on his arm, felt the fine hair that wasn’t so noticeable against his copper-toned skin. “But this is . . . you’re . . . different than the men I’ve dated.”

“How so?”

“People see me and often imagine a confident, worldly, educated woman. I am those things, but at the same time, my life has been sheltered. My parents, especially my mom, are very society conscious, and very concerned with how others perceive her and her domain, which growing up, and somewhat even now, includes her children. There weren’t many people of color where I lived and those who were there, at least the ones I encountered pretty much until I went to college, were like me: upper middle class, cultured, educated—not to say that you’re not!” Her hand left his arm and went to her mouth as she realized her faux pas.

“Baby, I’m a hood rat, and not at all ashamed of where I come from.” He reached for her hand. “Come here. I’m lonely in this big, soft bed all by myself. What kind of mattress is this anyway? I thought every bed was the same, but this muhfuh makes me feel like I’m floating on a cloud!”

Cynthia climbed on the bed. “It’s probably a pillow top.” She tucked her legs beneath her and leaned into Byron’s waiting embrace.

He felt her body, rigid, and simply held her, breathing evenly and, for a few seconds, allowing Trey to serenade them both. She relaxed. A little. “You were saying?”

“Who knows. I’m just rambling . . .”

“No, you’re not. You were telling me about where and how you grew up. I find it interesting, and want to know these things.”

“The bottom line is the men I’ve dated have been reserved, some with a hint or more of arrogance.” She turned to him. “You just say what’s on your mind, and act crazy in public without caring who sees you, and I don’t know . . . seem to not live by any rules.”

“I have rules.” Once again he stroked her arm, circular movements this time, and watched as a line of goose bumps trailed his thick middle finger. She relaxed a little more. “But only the ones that either myself or my parents created. Oh, and the law. I have a problem with tight, locked spaces, so I try and follow those, too.”

“Obviously the rules set down by your mom and mine were very different.”

He placed his face in the crook of her neck and nuzzled. “Probably.”

“I like it, though, that you’re free to . . . just be yourself.”

He inhaled her scent, moved a little closer, and placed his free hand on her leg, introducing his fingers to her thigh. “If you’re not being yourself, who are you?”

A long, quiet pause and then, “The daughter my mother envisioned.”

At this comment Byron sat up and looked at her, looked past the flawless skin, long eyelashes, perfectly puckered lips, and nice, naturally long hair. He looked into her eyes and saw a wounded soul, struggling to find itself. He knew the look, had seen it in the eyes of teen mothers getting on the bus with two, three kids, a group of loud, high, rowdy boys with fake swagger.

He relaxed against the pillows, holding her close. “Tell you what. Tonight, you can be yourself. If you don’t know who that is, then just be. And the real you will show up.”

She turned her body toward him, cuddled deeper into his embrace. Lifting her face up to see his eyes, she whispered, “Thank you.”

He lowered his head. “You’re welcome.”

The kiss began as a tender touch, a wispy brush of cushiony softness moving back and forth over hers, lightly, languidly, as though they had all the time in the world. His fingers moved up her arm, across her collarbone, along her cheek and neck, and down to the outline of the nipple protruding against her blouse. He cupped her breast and circled it with his thumb. She moved her body forward, body language that said it was all right to touch it. He knew that. But not yet. He was helping her be herself.

Her breathing increased and so did the pressure of her lips on his. She relaxed fully against his body, pressed her breasts against his chest, her flat stomach against his dough-boy middle. He moaned, pressed his tongue inside her mouth. His feathery fingers danced across her butt. It wasn’t the big, bubble booties he was used to and preferred, but it was hers. His fingers slid under the silky fabric of her blouse to her spine and into her hair where he gently massaged her scalp. And deepened the kiss, slowly circled her tongue with his, pressing her closer and shifting his body to make them both more comfortable. He put his whole head into the kiss, circling it as he circled his tongue. The rest of his body joined in, his hips slowly grinding against the sheet that touched her pants that hid the body he longed for. But not yet.

Trailing kisses across her cheek, he moved to her ear, flicked his tongue against the lobe, nibbled down her neck, shifted his tantalizing tease from her right breast to the left one. Her body strained against him, nipples begged to get some of what the areola was feeling. He kissed and licked the exposed flesh down to the first button of her blouse, and under her chin and back to her mouth. Softness was replaced by hard, fervent desire, his tongue demanding entry, their lips smashed together. The kiss lasted for seconds. It lasted forever. It blocked out everything else in the room and took all the air.

Cynthia sat up. Her breathing was labored, her eyes half-mast.

Byron stopped all movement, immediately concerned. “Are you all right?”

“No.”

“What’s the matter?”

“I have on too many clothes.” As she reached for the top button on her blouse, a sexy smile slid into place.

He’d dated a skinny woman here and there, but for the most part Byron liked his women thick and juicy. The woman on top of him was quickly changing this preference. Cynthia removed her pink lacy bra to reveal pert, B-cup charlies with berry-dusted nips. He imagined taking one whole into his mouth, swirling his lips around the nipple, and holding her breast captive with the strength of his lips.

He did that now. Leaned forward, teeth bared, and nipped the protrusion begging attention, holding it between his teeth as he flicked it once, twice, a third time with his tongue. She hissed, gasped, tossed her hair from this simple pleasure. Byron licked a path to the other breast, all the while making light, stroking moves with the fingers wrapped around her small, taut waist. His soldier began to salute. After not having sex for the past two months and being so turned on by who sat astride his thighs, he knew tonight would call for the ultimate discipline. Because his plan, his goal was simple—to leave this girl turned out and thoroughly whipped.

“Get up for a minute, baby.” Though whispered, it was clearly a command.

Cynthia pulled her leg from the other side of him and prepared to get out of the bed.

Byron stopped her. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“I’m just going to take off my—”

“No, I am. Lay down.”

She did, her eyes never leaving his as she did so. He leaned over, caught the zipper clasp of her slacks between his teeth and pulled, revealing bare skin and a pink thong that matched the bra removed moments ago. Gently pulling aside the material, his head dipped once more, and his tongue traveled across the band of her thong, lightly, almost reverently over and again, until finally it stiffened and slid just inside the elastic to meet skin as smooth and bare as a baby.
No hair. Damn, I’m going to tear this up.

After a few more excruciating moments with his tongue traveling to the top of her lips, gently nudging but going no farther, he gripped the waistband of her slacks and pulled down. Cynthia raised her body off the bed, anxious for his tongue to be back on her skin, his average-size penis to be inside her.

She was the only one in a hurry. Once again Byron lowered his head to her pelvic area, placed kisses across her stomach and along the elastic of the thong she wanted to rip away from her body and fling across the room. Who knew a mere wisp of material could prove such a distraction? Her hips gyrated, body language for “enough foreplay, let’s get to it!” Instead of getting with the program, Byron proved he was directing the show. He gripped her hips to still them and used his thumbs to communicate what would happen next. Placing them near her inner thighs, he pulled slightly. She got the message and spread her legs.

He shifted until his tongue was aligned with her treasure and then swabbed the crease of these lips through the flimsy thong. The friction of his tongue and the material was maddening, increasing Cynthia’s desire to the point of no control. He sensed this, and after ever . . . so . . . slowly pulling the thong down her long legs and off of her foot, he spread her legs wider, exposed her quivering pearl, placed his mouth over her whole heat, and devoured the flower. His tongue went everywhere, inside places she never dreamed, and it wasn’t long before her body began shaking as never before. Unintelligible noises slipped from her mouth as an orgasm rolled like a wave through her body, as Byron held on for every drop of the ride.

Before she had a moment, a second it seemed, to contemplate what kind of hurricane just swept through the room, he was inside her. He raised her legs in a way that allowed him to go—
ah! Oh, my!
Cynthia couldn’t believe what she was feeling. Barely over one orgasm and felt another one coming? Byron had discovered a part of her body that had obviously gone untouched before. He twirled his hips in a unique, jerky fashion and every time he did, the tip of his penis—the short one she’d discounted, weenie she’d called it—connected with whatever piece of anatomy that made women come.

“Oh . . . oh . . . ooh!” she panted, her eyes wide with amazement that she was having another orgasm. When they focused, it was to discover Byron’s hooded orbs boring into her, a knowing look on his face.

“Uh-huh.” He twirled and pumped and grinded, and thrust, the right side of his lips drawing into a snarl. “Wasn’t expecting this, were you?”

Cynthia opened her mouth but at the time seemed virtually ignorant of the English language.

He turned them over until she was on her knees and he was behind her. Quickly reentering her void, he somehow pumped upward, hitting her “come button” over and again.

Cynthia shrieked. Byron laughed.

“It’s not what you’ve got, baby. It’s how you use this muh-fuh.”

The words formed a rhyme, delivered to the beat of his thrusts. He spent a good part of the night making sure that Cynthia got the message.