Naughtier than Nice (33 page)

“Is it okay to spend the night? Should I check that box?”

“Only if you're going to be a man at work. You have to put me to sleep to earn your sleep.”

“Consider the box checked.”

I took his hand, led him back inside, beyond the sitting area, to the bed, which had fresh linens, and we stood at the foot of the bed and kissed again, that long and dizzying kiss the signing of the contract.

I said, “You kiss my neck like you want to take my clothes off.”

“You kiss me like you want me to show you my birthday suit.”

If he had come into my home like that, all hot and bothered and ready to go, tonight I would have been turned on by that energy, would've been ready and willing, and we never would have made it out of the garage. He seduced me, kissed my face, my neck, pulled my top away, licked my breasts, sucked my nipples, kissed the scars of my shoulder, kissed the mark on my thigh, undressed me, pulled away the rest of my clothing, then kissed my skin as it was exposed. My vagina was on display. It sparkled. It was a work of art.

He said, “Wow. That looks amazing.”

I blushed a little and exhaled. “Stopped by my sister's spa and got vajazzled for you.”

“For me?”

“No one else is going to see it but you. Like?”

“This is going to be the best Christmas present ever.”

“Happy belated Christmas. Now get naked. I want to watch you strip to your birthday suit.”

He undressed himself without rushing. With each button undone, with each piece of clothing removed, I sat and watched him wear his amazing birthday suit. He had a nice tool. A handsome cock. There hadn't been any augmentation. There hadn't been any trips to Suriname; there were no
boegroes
.

I appreciated that.

He motioned for me to open my legs wider, so he could get a better view of the decorations that surrounded his present. He was confident, and this was his gift, so I did what he asked.

From one Christmas to the next I had existed without experiencing passion on this level. It felt like it had been longer. It felt like it had been forever and a day. Trying to hide my rising desire and tension, I took a deep breath and pulled the new sheets back. I threw all but one pillow to the carpet.

We were nude, standing before a bed that had fresh sheets over a new mattress.

Moments from now he would be inside me.

First time with a new lover, the anticipation was powerful.

He sucked my ear, massaged my breasts, and whispered, “Want to go out on New Year's Eve?”

I moaned. “Really? You're going to ask me that now?”

“They say who you spend New Year's with is who you'll be with the rest of the year.”

“I know.”

“The way you spend New Year's Eve determines how the year will go.”

“Slow your roll. Let's see how this evening goes first.”

He was a man on fire, his craving powerful but not obsessive. He lifted me, placed me on the edge of the bed. Daniel sucked my toes, kissed my feet, kissed up my legs, worked his tongue north, kissed my scars, kissed where I had been stabbed, kissed that spot a dozen times, moved north again, his journey unhurried, then paused in the middle. I fell into a warm heaven. Famished, I reciprocated his kindness and generosity. I did a sweet Shemar on his Moore, did a little Morris on his Chestnuts.

Soon the handsome man who had a crush on me positioned himself between anxious thighs, both of us breathing heavily. My pre-orgasmic shudders and elongated sighs intensified when he touched engorged lips with the slope of his erection. I cooed, spoke in murmurs and whispers. He woke up slumbering nerves. We were skin to skin, eye to eye, inhaling and exhaling, as I sucked his bottom lip. We sucked tongues like they were coated with honey and cream. He rested on me, did a slow grind where wetness bloomed. I couldn't take it anymore. He rose up on his elbows, adjusted himself. He was ready. I tensed. He went gently into my secrets bit by bit and I whined, held on to him, and eased into my soft hallelujah song. He filled me. We'd only started and I was impressed, knew that I would want to experience this passion again. It was stunning from the top. Kisses were gems of perfection. His stroke was powerful yet not rushed. More intense than forceful. Unhurried yet measured. Strong and poignant. I tried to maintain the façade of coolness, tried to control the fire, but his rhythm was as deeply moving as he was moving deeply. It was exquisite. When that sensual side of me broke free, when my back bowed again and my hands clutched sheets, my fantasies of being with the man only known by the moniker Driver again went away. The way Daniel pleased me, it was a damn shame I had shut down the houghmagandy room. He might motivate me to start it up anew. This was how I wanted to spend my next New Year's Eve. This New Year's
Eve at midnight, as fireworks went off all over the City of Angels, and as my phone would ring with the pregnant McBrooms and Monica and Blue and Tony calling to wish me a happy New Year, Daniel would be stroking me . . . doing an Idris on my Elba like this . . . just . . . like . . . like . . .
this.

ERIC JEROME DICKEY is the
New York Times
bestselling author of twenty-two novels, and is also the author of a six-issue miniseries of graphic novels for Marvel Entertainment, featuring Storm (
X-Men
) and the Black Panther. He also penned the original story for the film
Cappuccino,
directed by Craig Ross Jr. Originally from Memphis, Tennessee, Dickey is a graduate of the University of Memphis, where he pledged Alpha Phi Alpha, and also attended UCLA. Dickey now lives on the road and rests in whatever hotel will have
him.

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