1. Micaiah Jamison Livingstone #2
I swear I didn’t know how my parents raised all of us under one roof.
We were alike yet so different and loud and rambunctious.
At forty-two, Dawn was reserved, polite, a wife and mother of three boys, and owned her own consignment shop; Brooke, at thirty-nine, was opinionated but loveable, loud but funny, and she was a married mother of two and owned her own salon.
We had just celebrated Josh earlier this year, who at thirty-three, was the more serious one of us, which may have contributed to him becoming a pediatric surgeon.
Twenty-seven-year-old Noah was a ladies’ man who loved to party, and he had joined SWAT last year.
Tamar, at twenty-three, was the baby, and she had just graduated college.
She worked as an aesthetician while she figured out her next stage of life.
She was moody sometimes, but a very sweet but spoiled girl, and clearly neurotic based on her comment.
My parents were proud of us, no matter our level of success or chosen career field.
After graduating college with my Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing, I became an adjunct professor at Cherokee Springs University teaching courses in literature and creative writing.
While the pay wasn’t much, it gave me time to focus on my literary career.
I submitted my mystery novel, Blood in the Delta, repeatedly for two years at every convention I could attend, from the moment I graduated college, before Arabella finally picked it up. That girl worked magic with what she had been given, and I hadn’t looked back since. That was nine years ago.
I said my goodbyes to everyone else until the last guests had left.
“Well, that was successful,” Arabella stated, curled up on the couch.
I had just closed the door on the final guest and returned to the library.
“It was. Thank you for doing that. Not that you had to, but I appreciate the celebration.”
She had a wineglass in her hand and sipped from it. She set it down and walked seductively up to me as I stuffed my hands in my pockets and watched her.
“Your words are saying one thing, but your tone and body language are saying something else altogether. What’s wrong, baby? Let me fix it.” She looped her arms around my neck.
“No. You’re here to represent my works and get me the good deals,” I replied, tugging at her arms only for her to tighten them.
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” I asked.
“Push me away. Not tonight.”
I rested my hands on her hips. “Why not?”
“I need you, Micaiah. Need you to take the edge off,” she explained, slowly unlocking her hands and dragging them down my chest.
My fingers met hers on the buttons of my pants. I tried to remove her fingers, but she only locked them on firmer. When I finally pulled them free, she cupped my dick in my slacks and then gripped my zipper and slid it down.
“Why do you do this every time, Bell?” I groaned in a deep, guttural tone.
She dropped to her knees easily, freed my dick from my boxer briefs, and looked up at me. “Because we need each other. Maybe in different ways, but we still need each other. I know I’m your Eris from Love No Limit.”
I didn’t bother to correct her and say she would be more like Sasha.
I couldn’t say shit once she popped my dick in her mouth.
Hell, I couldn’t think when her mouth was full of my dick.
My hips slowly thrust forward as she worked me to the back of her throat.
My eyes rolled back into my head, and every argument was lost.
I wasn’t sure how I found myself in this space with Arabella time after time.
I had been married two other times, but I never made my way back to them.
Yet, I always found myself back in bed with her.
That was how it started after my first divorce.
I was drinking to get through my days, and I kept asking for more deadlines.
Arabella came to my apartment and found me living in squalor.
She cleaned my apartment, fed me, cursed me out, led me to the shower, bathed me, and then sucked me off and rode my dick.
When she finished, she said all my needs had been met, and she saw no reason for me to need another deadline.
She’d given me everything I needed to write the hell out of that book.
She hadn’t been lying either. I wrote the hell out of that book, and it was the one that turned the name Mike Jamison into a household name.
She pulled back and stared up at me with those beautiful, doe-shaped eyes. Before she could put me in her mouth again, I lifted her and carried her to the baby grand in the corner.
Arabella spread her legs wide, and I saw that she hadn’t been wearing panties tonight. I pulled her to the edge of the piano, reached inside of my back pants pocket, and removed my wallet.
She closed her eyes and sighed, but she knew the argument would be a moot point. I wasn’t fucking her raw. I didn’t trust her like that.
After I covered myself, I slid into her walls and wrapped her legs around me. My fingers splayed across her belly, and Arabella’s walls suctioned me deeper inside.
“Ohhh, Micaiah. Mm, yes, baby. This is what I needed. God, please give me another hit. Another one,” she pled through clenched teeth.
With each plea, I gave her exactly what she was looking for: long, slow strokes.
I pulled her off the piano, bent her over the couch, and fucked her anally.
We climbed the stairs to the second floor, where I donned another condom and let her ride me until she received her third orgasm, and I had my first.
When we finished, she rolled off and lay in the curve of my arm.
“Maybe we should give it a go again.”
I chuckled and pulled my fingers through her long, inky curls that I had freed from the bun when I had her on the piano.
“You know you’re not the settling type, and I won’t ever try to tie you down again.”
“I’ve matured. I could be that for you.”
“Nah. It wouldn’t work; you’re not the settling type.
Besides, I decided marriage isn’t for a man like me; not anymore,” I lied.
That was what I tried to make myself believe so my heart wouldn’t want it so desperately.
“I don’t know what I was thinking when I asked you to marry me the first time. Still can’t believe you said yes.”
She laughed. “You weren’t thinking. You were drunk. As for me, hell, I had just gotten you a major book deal, and I knew you were going to be the shit. Never mind that your stroke game is the best I’ve ever had, and your dick tastes like beef wellington.”
Before I could protest, she grabbed my dick and sucked it back in her mouth, stale cum and all. I couldn’t deny that Arabella sucked a mean dick. She sucked dick like she was slurping a camel through a straw.
That shit felt good as hell. But while my toes may have been curled and my balls were growing tighter, my heart and mind was somewhere else. I wouldn’t mind having the same woman in my bed every night, but what would be even better would be to have someone who honored, loved, and respected me.
“Let me go, Bell,” I pleaded weakly.
When she replied, “Mm-mm,” I wasn’t sure if she was talking about my dick or the hold that she had on me.