Sex in the Sanctuary (9 page)

“I thought you’d never come to bed,” she whispered, laying her head against his solid, muscled arm.

“Yeah, I thought I’d never get finished,” he eked out, clearing his throat as he did so and making a big deal about getting settled in for a good night’s sleep, moving his arm away from Tai’s head in the process.

Tai noticed, but pressed the issue. “It’s been a while.” She scooted closer and put her head against his arm again, using her hand to outline an oblong path from his belly button to nipples and back again. She reached up and kissed his cheek. Why did she feel as if she was begging? This was her husband for God’s sake!

King turned toward her abruptly and kissed her as he would
Sistah Wanthers or Sistah Stokes. “I’m tired, baby. I love you. Good night.”

And then he turned over, away from her, and pretended to sleep. But he didn’t. Neither did she. They were both awake for a long time.

His embrace tightened as Vivian tried to move out of it. Derrick’s arms were wrapped firmly around her breasts, his heavy leg slung possessively over her thighs. Her head was in the crook of his neck, just under his chin, with one leg angled out in front of her. As she stirred, Derrick pulled her in tighter and began to stroke her breasts in slow, teasing circles. He nuzzled her head beneath his chin, slid her hair back from her neck and kissed the nape. Vivian cuddled up against him and smiled.

“It looks like Mister Big is getting bigger,” she teased, turning over to kiss him, morning breath and all.

“Yeah, he wants to come visit Miss Kitty,” was his throaty reply as he squeezed her booty before turning her over and under his body.

“You know I need to brush my teeth,” she murmured.

“You started it,” he whispered, showering her face with feathery kisses before moving south and down to other delectable pieces of chocolate for his enjoyment.

“Hmmmm, I love it when you won’t take no for an answer.” Vivian began her own journey of kisses—the eyes, the nose, mouth, neck. The nipples, the stomach, six-pack, seventh heaven.

“Whoa, baby, you’re about to start something down there.”

“Baby, this party is already in progress.”

“Well, let the dancing begin.”

Vivian couldn’t imagine a better way to wake up.

It was two hours later that Derrick and Vivian emerged from their love nest. Vivian had called the children on their private line and threatened them with bodily harm if she or their father was disturbed. Instead, she’d let Anastacia handle the fairly easy chore of getting D-2 and Elisia off to school. Derrick called his secretary with instructions to reschedule his nine o’clock appointment and to tell his ten o’clock that he was running late. He was humming a melody of his own making as he headed out of their bedroom and down the steps toward the smell of turkey bacon, eggs and hash browns.

“Looks like somebody worked up an appetite,” he murmured while giving Vivian yet another cheekful of kisses.

“Stop that now, or your food will burn!” She turned off the fire beneath the eggs and grabbed the orange juice out of the refrigerator. “Do you want coffee or tea this morning?”

Derrick looked up and licked his lips invitingly. Vivian could feel herself getting wet and warm again, something she felt was ridiculous for someone who was almost forty, had known the culprit of such vibes for almost fifteen years and had just finished an intense lovemaking session that would have rivaled any twenty-year-old’s by comparison.

“Isn’t there a third choice on that list?” he questioned.

“Orange juice?” Vivian countered, lifting the pitcher.

Derrick laughed out loud. He loved Vivian’s sense of humor
and her sharp mind. Although there had been a couple of bumps in the road, okay, jagged trenches actually, both he and Vivian had honored their commitment to be faithful to each other, and he was proud that while he knew plenty before, he’d never touched another woman after Vivian became Mrs. Derrick Montgomery. Nor had he needed to. Vivian was just what a man such as he needed, a lady in the living room and, well, something else in the bedroom. Something else indeed!

Vivian fixed Derrick’s plate and set it beside him at the breakfast nook where he was sitting reading the sports page. She’d already decided on coffee for the both of them and poured them each a cup before making her own plate and bringing it to the table. Derrick was knee-deep in Laker territory. It was the playoffs. And the Lakers were winning.

“You act like that’s news to you,” Vivian began as she poked at the paper veiling the love of her life.

“Huh?”

“There’s nothing in there you don’t know. Weren’t you at the game last night?”

“Yeah, but I’m just reading the stats.”

“Your eggs are getting cold.”

“Okay, baby.”

Derrick put the paper down and grabbed the jelly to spread on his toast. He was feeling happier than he’d ever felt in his life, and he didn’t quite know why. Vivian was always exceptional in bed, a great cook and a superb conversationalist. Those things were nothing new. But it was as if they could both sense their marriage going to another level, through no attempt of their own, but more like one of life’s unexpected and unasked for gifts.

“So,” he started after having quickly devoured half the food on his plate, “another meeting with the ladies today?”

“Yep. We’re working on our meeting coming up in September. Only this time, we’re doing a four-week series, the whole month. That is, if it doesn’t conflict with your plans. I
looked at our calendar, and while it’s already pretty full, the series is still doable.”

“Why the whole month? You’ve been doing only four Saturdays a year.”

“I know, but God has really been dealing with me on an issue I believe is more important, more challenging and more complicated than one Saturday can adequately cover.”

“Unh. Must be about us.”

“Us?”

“Men.”

“Ding-ding-ding. My hubby’s so smart,” Vivian said, feeding him a forkful of hash browns from her plate. “You got it right on the first guess.”

“It’s not hard. You women only talk about three things, men, men and men!”

“Ooh, no you didn’t! We talk about a lot more than men; don’t give your admittedly ingenious species too much credit!”

“Baby, it doesn’t matter where y’all start out in the conversation because men is where you end up.”

“That may be true, but there’s a lot of ground that we cover in the process. And while granted, this series will focus on relationships, we are going to deal more with the relationships of women amongst ourselves as opposed to relationships between the sexes.”

“Sounds interesting,” Derrick crooned. “And dangerous.”

“Dangerous?”

“Uh-huh. You know if you women ever got on one accord in a show of unity, we men wouldn’t stand a chance.”

“Your perceptiveness again overwhelms me, love. And you’re right. But we’re hoping the things that will end as a result of our banding together will be things that shouldn’t exist in the first place.

“Like…?”

“Oh, you know: lying, cheating, adultery, just the small stuff.”

“Oh, those pesky little creatures.”

“Exactly. More coffee?”

“Thanks, baby, just top it off.”

Derrick watched as Vivian refilled their cups, taking in her supple breasts peeking out from underneath her silk robe.

Vivian sipped her coffee, quiet a moment. “We’re going to send out an S.O.S., remind ourselves about the Sanctity of Sisterhood.”

“Anything in particular lead you to conduct this series?” Derrick asked gently.

Vivian knew where his thoughts were headed. King and Tai. Of course their problems added validity to the need for the series. She told Derrick that and added, “I’m hoping Tai will be one of the speakers.”

“Ha! Good luck with getting Tai in front of an audience. You know that girl likes to be backfield in motion. Especially now…”

“So has King told you who she is yet?”

“Who?”

Vivian gave him a look and turned away.

“No,” Derrick said, turning her back to face him. He knew how the situation upset her, and hugged her until she didn’t know where she ended and he began. “Did I ever tell you how special you are to me?”

“Once or twice. But you can tell me again.”

Derrick could always make Vivian feel better.

“Baby, if I did that, I’d miss my meeting. I’m tempted to clear the decks and lay with you in bed all day as it is.”

“But then I’d miss
my
meetings, not to mention my mani/ pedi.”

“And risk your feet cutting my legs with some unattended toenails? Oh no, baby, we must postpone this little tryst for another time!”

“Forget you, Black man!” Vivian laughed as she threw a towel at his tall, lithe frame ducking around the corner. He
stole a peek while she was still laughing, her body turned once again and shaking softly as she wiped the counter. Derrick groaned.

“But you know I love you, baby, tore-up feet and all.”

Hope didn’t know what started it. It was a Friday night. She’d gotten off work and, like many other Friday nights when she had nothing to do, gone to Blockbuster and picked up some
DVD
s. She’d then gone to Chopstix, her favorite Chinese food restaurant, and ordered her favorites—Kung Pao chicken, vegetable fried rice, hot-and-sour soup and an order of egg rolls with lots of extra soy and sweet-and-sour sauce. She’d then swung into the mini-mart with the Baskin-Robbins ice cream shop and ordered a pint, no, make that a quart, of ice cream, half mint chocolate chip and half rocky road. She weaved in and out of traffic in her zeal to hit as many green lights as possible, while bobbing and snapping to the sounds of Kirk Franklin. She pulled into her parking space in the small and cozy apartment complex that was her home and trudged up the steps and through the doors with her comfort food. She’d dumped the
DVD
s in the living room on the way to the kitchen where she put down her containers. She went back into the living room and turned the TV on before continuing through the living room into the short hall
way to her bedroom where she shed her work clothes and put on a pair of warm-ups and matching booties. She went into the bathroom, washed off her make-up and pulled her hair back into a single braid. She went back into the living room, checked her answering machine and played back the messages—a short, sassy one from her mother (that made her smile), a long, detailed one from Sistah McCormick with a mile-high list of things she needed to check for the conference (that made her frown), a funny, somewhat naughty message from Frieda talking about a blind date she was going on and leaving instructions for Hope to call her on her cell a couple of times during the evening just to make sure she was all right (that made her pray) and a telemarketing call, the recorded kind, from somebody selling life insurance (that made her glad she had an answering machine with a delete button). That was it. She opened the front door and got the mail out of the box and gave it a cursory glance before throwing it on the coffee table for later perusal. Picking up the phone, she called her mother’s house and got the answering machine.
Don’t tell me Mom has something to do on a Friday night,
she thought before leaving a quick message that ended with “I love you” and audible smooches. Then she plopped down on the couch and idly hit the channel button, not realizing until she’d gone through the entire number series twice that she wasn’t really watching anything on TV. She grabbed a foreign film with English subtitles that she’d heard a lot about called
Amour
, and while the movie previews were showing, went into the kitchen to heat up dinner.

As always, the food was delicious and the movie was charming. It was about an Italian man in Russia who’d fallen in love with a diplomat’s daughter and was trying to woo her in spite of an incredible language barrier. He spoke no Russian or English, and she, while smitten with his Svengali charm, spoke no Italian. Hope laughed aloud at the handsome guy’s antics at trying to prove his love for her, his Russian princess,
and impress her father. The movie was about halfway over and she was eating a spoon of rocky road ice cream mixed with the mint chocolate chip when it started. For seemingly no apparent reason at all. At first it was like a slight chill, one that started deep in the stomach and mushroomed like an atomic bomb up through her chest and over her head and sprinkled back down like a fine layer of snow on a Minnesota morning. The wetness wasn’t snow, but tears cascading silently and continually down her cheeks. She closed her eyes and swallowed hard, willing herself to stop. She put down the ice cream, almost unable to swallow the bite that was in her mouth, and pressed her hands to her eyes. Hard. The little man on the screen (that was the other funny thing, the Russian woman was about six-two; he was five-four) was on his knees, asking for the woman’s hand in marriage. Hope didn’t hear the answer because, without warning, her sobs had become audible and had developed into a low wail, a wail that sounded as if it belonged to somebody else.
What is wrong with me?
She hit the pause button on the movie and continued to cry silently into her hands, now wet with a messy mixture of tears and snot and saliva, creating an unshaped blob in the palm of her hand, kind of like the mixture of loneliness and unhappiness and fear that created an unshaped blob in the depths of her heart. Although it hadn’t happened in a while and had come on unexpectedly, Hope knew why she was crying. Because it was Friday night. And she was lonely. And alone. Again…

After grasping that reality, the words of Bishop T. D. Jakes, her favorite televangelist, arose in her mind. “You can be alone and not lonely!” Hope wondered how one did that. She knew God loved her. She knew He would never leave or forsake her. But the truth of the matter was, she was alone
and
lonely.

She hadn’t always felt that way, especially right after her move from Tulsa. She’d been so enthralled with being in a
new place, meeting new people, seeing new things. It all helped her keep Shawn out of her mind. Then she’d flung herself full force into her job at the newspaper, working long hours when she first got her assignments, not only to get her feet wet but also to establish a reputation. Furnishing her place took up a huge chunk of time in those first months. Hope had always prided herself on her interior decorating, and with the salary her job provided, she would shop all weekend, just to find the right knickknacks for the whatnots. Although her basic living room furniture, including the couch and loveseat, had come from Levitz, she’d pored over magazines, browsed countless shops and attended more than one estate sale to artistically personalize her living space.

Then, of course, there was Mount Zion Progressive. She had jumped in with both feet and the fervor of a new convert. She was the single, unattached one who could always attend a meeting, pick up teenagers, handle administrative work, choreograph a routine, hold a twenty-four-hour prayer session, and participate in other areas of the church besides her youth group, including inner city missionaries and the prayer line.

There was also John Madden, a friend of a friend at the newspaper whom she’d dated about six months before he dumped her because she wouldn’t let him go for the gold. Besides him, however, she’d been on her own for the two years she’d lived in Overland Park, and although there were occasions of affection here and there, none was lasting, none keeping her warm at night. She’d vowed to God that the next man she made love to would be her husband, and she had regular shouting matches with the Father, asking just where was her husband hiding? She used to threaten God with time frames and ultimatums such as “If I don’t meet my husband this month, I’m gonna fornicate,” but God had obviously remained totally unmoved as if to say, “If you feel froggy…leap!” The men at her church seemed either married, dogs,
intimidated or gay. Oh, the homosexuals tried to keep it on the down low, this was the Midwest after all, but she knew that a couple of ’otha brothas were among God’s anointed at Mount Zion.

“What is wrong with me?” Hope pondered again as the television, having been on pause for so long, went to screen saver. She, like so many other single, lonely women, had done the self-survey under harsh, self-inflicted thousand-watt lights, and no matter the statistics, came up lacking. She was attractive, she thought, and fun and smart. A college grad, she held a good job with an upwardly mobile future. She was saved, sanctified and filled with the Holy Ghost. She knew how to cook and clean and liked to keep a tidy house. Although it had been a while and she had only the experience with Shawn, she liked sex. A lot. She didn’t have any bad habits to speak of, didn’t drink, curse or do drugs. She could be a bit anal, she admitted, when it came to cleanliness and order. Someone had once told her she had a Type A personality. But she wasn’t in debt, and although her credit had been ruined during her college years, she was working to get it reestablished. She had no children. She felt she was a good, decent, caring person who wanted to get married and who, she thought, would make someone a wonderful wife. “So why,” said the devil on her shoulder, “since you’re so good and decent and caring, are you all by yourself?” That was the million-dollar question for which she had no answer. So she sat in her nicely decorated living room with melting ice cream and hard fortune cookies. She sat with no one’s arms but hers wrapped around her, balled into the corner of her off-white leather couch, wishing she could sink into the cushions, the springs, the floor, the earth. She sat and cried, lonely and alone on a Friday night. And she didn’t know what had started it.