Chapter 6
Chapter Six
TAKIRA
I drank too much and didn’t fuck enough.
Correction. I didn’t fuck at all, and it’s been so long that I’m feeling it.
My head pounds, and my pussy throbs. She’s mad at me for walking away from what could have been—but now we’ll never know—the best dick of my life.
Maybe Naz wouldn’t deliver on that kiss, but the way he took my tongue in his mouth and sucked hard while his big hands were so gentle at my throat, on my shoulders, arms, back?
That was a man who knew what he was doing, and he wanted to do it to me.
And I’ll be damned if I didn’t want to let him.
“Shit.”
I roll onto my back and slide a hand into my panties beneath the coolness of the sheets.
As soon as I got home, I downed quite a bit of wine, hoping to take off the edge Naz pushed me to.
I peeled that bodysuit off, tossed my Jimmy Choos into a corner, and crawled in bed bare.
I woke up soaked from dreams of that man, a collage of the past, the present, and the future he gave me a glimpse of last night with a mere kiss.
A future where he fucks me like I’ve been wanting, needing for a long time. I like it hard and deep and nasty.
No apologies. No shame.
My sister even got me a vibrator for Christmas. My people know. None of those Groundhog dates have led to anything—not only no relationships, but no hook-ups. I love sex, but I’m discriminating. Not just anyone is getting up in here, and so far, I haven’t been impressed by the LA buffet.
The last great orgasm I wasn’t personally responsible for occurred two weeks ago at an industry party.
There was this girl…Janna, I think. Her name is fuzzy.
The way that chick robo-tongued me for like an hour—that part is crystal clear.
She left no crumbs. I find women tend to take their time—to be attuned to your body’s responses.
Once they find a spot, they stay there. It would be really convenient if I didn’t also like to be filled, like, to the brim with dick.
If I didn’t like a man’s rough hairs abrading my legs and crave that weight on top of me, behind me.
If I didn’t like to wake up tucked into the solid bulk of a man at my back, but I do.
I’ve given and received to all and enjoyed it all.
I want to feel good with people I like and respect.
Whatever you call that, that’s what I am.
Bisexual. Sexual. Others can choose to label it. I just live it.
I work my clit, slick and swollen between my legs, trail the other hand up my torso to squeeze my breast, pluck at one nipple.
My body responds, but there’s something detached about this.
Something almost mechanical that leaves me cold inside even as parts of me go hot.
I give up, jerking my hand from my panties and letting it fall by my head in a clenched fist.
Naz’s handsome face keeps crowding my thoughts.
That kiss—hot, commanding, tender—has me shook.
Left me wanting something I can’t quite put my finger on, no pun intended.
It’s more than just sex. It’s curiosity.
It’s fascination. Excitement. I can’t name all the emotions Naz sparked in me last night, but I know they picked up from where they left off that night so many years ago.
We talked and made out that night, sure, but we were just kids.
Last night—that was some grown folks shit, and I’ve rarely—if ever—felt an attraction that intense.
My phone on the bedside table rings, jarring me from the smutty mire of my thoughts. I unplug it from the charger and bring it to my ear, not bothering to check who’s calling.
“Hello,” I yawn into the phone, swiping a hand down my face and frowning at the black and fuchsia smears on my palm. I broke the cardinal rule of makeup removal last night.
“Me sistah,” Janice, my eldest sibling, drawls from the other line, exaggerating her island lilt. She actually does have a little bit left from living in Trinidad longer than I did and learning to talk while she was there. “What are you doing this fine morning?”
“Nothing much.” I sit up and prop my back against the headboard. “Just laying around, looking like yesterday.”
“How’d the fashion show go? You see any celebrities?”
“A few. I met Lotus Ross, of course.”
“I love her stuff.”
“Same.” I lick my lips before going on. “There were lots of basketball players there. Her husband, Kenan, had recruited a lot of his friends, so I met a few ballers.”
I pause, tugging the sheet up to cover my breasts. I’ve never told Janice about that one night with Naz. I was especially hesitant when it became clear what a sore subject he became for Cliff, and by extension, the rest of my family.
“You know this old married lady lives vicariously through you, Tee. Please tell me you smashed some rich, famous, fine-ass baller.”
I get out of bed, slipping a short silk robe on over my thong. Leaving it to hang open, I pad barefoot to the kitchen.
“How about a kiss?” I ask, not sure how much I should tell her or how she’ll respond. She knows as well as I do how Cliff feels about Naz.
“Who was it? Anybody I know?”
“Um…” I start my coffee machine. “Nazareth Armstrong?”
For a few extended seconds, the drip of my coffee is the only sound. Is she even breathing?
“Hellooo?” I ask, forcing a laugh. “Is this thing on?”
“You saw Naz? You kissed Naz?”
“Wasn’t the first time,” I mutter, fitting the phone between my ear and shoulder to grab yogurt from the fridge.
“What does that mean? What you ’bout, Tee?”
“The night before the championship game, Cliff had the team over for dinner.”
“Yeah, and?”
“That’s the night I met Naz, and something clicked with us. We talked for hours up on the roof.”
“And you kissed him?”
“Yeah, and it was like… I don’t know. Girl, it was like magic.” I chuckle self-consciously, knowing how fanciful I must sound to my notoriously pragmatic older sister.
“Why am I just now hearing ’bout this?”
“Really, Neecey? Naz’s name was mud in our house. It’s not like he and I had a relationship. We had a connection. It felt real and good and like potential, but after what happened, I couldn’t do that to Cliff.”
“And you just ran into him at the show after all this time?”
“I literally tripped and fell into his arms.” I pour a generous serving of coffee in one of my many Breakfast at Tiffany’s mugs, this one sporting a sketch of Holly Golightly wearing her sleep mask.
“And you got to talk after the show?”
“There was an after-party at Lotus’s house, and he kind of dragged me downstairs to the pool room.”
“Did you do it on a pool table?” Janice gasps, and I can’t discern if she’s outraged or delighted. Probably torn.
“No, I told you we just kissed, but it was like one of those kisses you dream about. It was a lot like the first time we kissed, but he’s more confident now. More aggressive.”
“And you love that hard shit. Let me guess. That vibrator I gave you for Christmas got a workout last night.”
“No.”
“This morning?”
“Neecey, will you stop?” I laugh. “Though I must admit…best present ever.”
“I also gave you a bottle of rosé. Vibrations and libations.”
“That rosé was bomb, and somehow, even though it’s not even my favorite vibe, it’s become like my lucky charm.” I take a slurpy sip of my coffee. “Even when I go on trips and know I won’t use it, I still take it with me.”
“Now that is weird. All us kids need therapy.”
“I feel like we’re getting way off topic here. I did not use the vibrator.” I used my hand, and it didn’t help. “But Naz was the last thing I thought about when I went to sleep and the first thing I thought about when I woke up. He wants to see me. Like, take me out or whatever.”
“And you said?”
“No, of course.”
“Why ‘of course’? I’m sick and damn tired of you complaining about the people you meet on . This is the most excitement I’ve heard from you ever about anyone.”
“It’s not that simple, and you know that. Cliff’s recovery is so fragile. I don’t want to do anything that will set him back.”
In the quiet that follows, I imagine she’s reliving the horror of Cliff’s overdose. We both rushed home, me from LA and Janice from Chicago, where her family lives now. Mama was inconsolable. Daddy was pissed but also terrified.
“I’ve never been so scared in my life,” Janice finally whispers.
“Exactly,” I say, taking my coffee back to the bedroom. “I can’t do anything to risk that happening again.”
“Look, I get it, but we both know Naz had nothing to do with Cliff’s shit. He brought that on himself. Why should you ignore an attraction as strong as it sounds like this one is because Cliff might not like it?”
“It’s more serious than not liking it,” I say, deciding I’m not quite ready to be up and climbing back into bed. “He’s obsessed with the idea that Naz took everything that was meant for him and ruined his life. I don’t want to send him spiraling.”
“Look, at his big age, Cliff is gonna have to get over this. That man is thirty-one years old, has a job, and is looking better than I’ve seen him in years. Trust that he’s getting better, Tee, and take something for yourself. Besides, who says he has to know about it? What’s the harm in one date?”
“There’s been enough harm done, so I don’t plan to find out.”
Long after we disconnect, I’m mid-Sunday reset—washing my sheets, wiping down the counters, mopping the floors, and preparing my meals for the week—when the phone rings again. A smile curls on my lips when Lotus Ross’s name flashes onscreen.
“Lotus, hey.” I leave the kitchen and the whir of my dishwasher, stepping out onto the small balcony with a view that makes this studio worth the rent. “How are you?”
“Recovering,” she says, her voice carrying that husky timbre I recognize as exhaustion. “I guess being pregnant really can slow you down, or at least it should, according to my over-protective husband.”