3. Mica
He hadn’t spoken a word, just draped her legs over his shoulders, used his long fingers to part her pussy and buried his tongue inside of her.
“Oh, shit!” The words rushed out of her mouth and were followed by a breathy moan as Mica gripped the sheets beneath her.
He ravaged her pussy, his tongue diving deep, then retreating to lick up to her clit and down again to dip inside. Over and over again in a hungry pace that snatched her breath. Her chest heaved; eyes remained closed tightly as the pressure building in the pit of her stomach intensified. She clenched her lower lip so tightly between her teeth the possibility of drawing blood was inevitable. Pleasure soared through her like a ferocious storm, as his mouth mastered every crevice of her pussy.
“Nash!” she cried out once and then, as if her mind was stuck on repeat, again and again.
“I knew it.” He groaned and sucked along her labia. “I knew you would taste fuckin’ heavenly.”
Those words, that compliment, his tongue, all sent new waves of bliss crashing over her and she trembled.
His fingers were moving then, easing down to drag some of the copious amounts of fluids he had dripping from her, further down until she gasped.
Not there! Her mind screamed. He couldn’t be about to touch her…there!
Oh, but he was, or he did, she couldn’t think. Couldn’t do anything but struggle for composure as he applied the slightest amount of pressure.
“Breathe,” he instructed, drawing out the word in his deep seductive voice. “That’s it, baby, just breathe.”
She didn’t know if she was breathing, panting, or hell, floating into oblivion. All she was certain of was how damn delicious everything he was doing to her felt.
“That’s it,” he whispered. “Relax and let me please you.” Those words seemed to echo in her mind even though he’d spoken them so quietly she probably shouldn’t have heard them at all.
Because his mouth was on her again as he sucked her clit and applied more pressure with that finger until it was inside of her.
“Oooohh,” she moaned.
“Damn,” he groaned simultaneously.
Then he was licking and sucking her pussy, pumping slowly, but most definitely inside of her in that place she’d once thought was forbidden. Her breath was coming in snatches, no matter how hard she tried to do as he said and relax. She did breathe, somehow, which was probably the only thing that kept her from passing out from the onslaught of pleasure ripping through her at this moment.
He went harder, eating her as if she were his last meal, pumping his finger into her ass as if he were imagining it was his dick. And that thought, shiiittt, that thought had her lifting her hips up off the bed, circling them as if he could possibly lick her faster, pump into her deeper. Anything to get her to that place.
She could feel the pressure building from that deepest place inside her, curling through every part of her in search of that explosion that would release all the tension and let her fly freely. His name was like a chant in the air now. She was loud and unabashed, the onslaught of pleasure too much for the pretenses she normally carried during sexual encounters.
And when she finally popped, when that bubble of pleasure finally exploded inside of her, she screamed until her throat was raw.
“Yesss, baby,” he crooned from somewhere. He was still close, she could smell him. And he was still touching her, maybe, probably because her body still felt warm all over.
But Mica couldn’t see and she couldn’t move to reach out to him. All she could do was lay there on that fluffy cloud of pleasure and enjoy every glorious moment of the aftermath.
The way she shot up in that bed, heart racing, eyes wide. Mica immediately pressed a hand to her chest, forcing herself to calm the hell down.
So, this is what a wet dream felt like? But weren’t they just for men? The questions floated into her mind moments later, after she’d finally accepted that it was all, in fact, a dream.
Which was a hard thing to swallow considering how swollen her pussy felt and how wet her panties definitely were.
She made her way quickly to the bathroom to strip off her nightgown that had been sticking to her skin and the panties that were likewise damp. This couldn’t be what happened to a normal woman after having a normal—albeit highly sexually charged—dream about a guy she just met.
To be fair, Nash Waters was more than just a guy. He was a co-worker, sort of. Except in actuality, she owned the company where he worked, so technically he should be called her employee. He was gruff and edgy, his face in a perpetual frown at all times. At least the times that she’d seen him. Only, that frown was quite possibly the sexiest look Mica had ever seen.
He had a strong jaw, lined with a close and neatly cut beard. His lips could be construed as big—as hers could be also, a fact that her elementary school classmates made painfully clear—but they were proportionate to his face, she thought, and for some reason she wanted to lick them the way he’d licked her lower ones in her dream. Shaking her head, she leaned into the shower stall to turn on the water. Since when did she want to lick any part of a man?
Since last night’s dream, that’s when.
And that didn’t mean that she didn’t like men, or sex for that matter. She just didn’t recall wanting to lick or suck or bask in anything she’d done with the men in her past. Not the way she was with this dream.
Mica stepped into the shower and pulled the curtain closed. She immediately moved beneath the warm spray of water, letting it rain down over her head and her body. Nash’s hands had been strong, his fingers intentional as they roamed parts of her body only ever felt by her and her doctor. His were big hands, calloused and strong. It didn’t make sense how good they felt along her skin. With each touch she’d shivered even though heat was flowing steadily throughout her body. In the dream he’d used his fingers to enter her in a place she’d never thought would be entered. Hadn’t wanted to be entered, so how her imagination could have conjured just how amazing that would feel, she had no clue. Even now, her body trembled with the delicious thought. A thought that should’ve been forbidden, but now, wasn’t.
When her thighs continued to shake, she dipped a hand down to cup her juncture in the hope of calming the persistent ache there. Squeezing her thighs tight she tried to will all the emotion and reactions from that dream to cease, but the touch and the pressure only spurred them on and she groaned.
Her other hand moved to her breast and she gripped it tightly, biting down on her lower lip to keep from screaming. Would Nash palm her breast like this? Would he put his masterful mouth on them, suck her nipples into his mouth the way he had her clit? With that thought, her hand moved of its own volition, fingers, slipping between her plump folds to glide along her already moistened slit. And before she could wonder if she should be doing this to the imagery of a man she definitely should not be dreaming about, she was pressing two fingers into her center, pulling them out, then thrusting them back in again. All while the memory of his fingers in her rear replayed in her mind. That same feeling she’d experienced in her dream, the building pleasure that stormed through her body, was happening right now. As she fingered herself, played with her breasts and languished in the warm water cascading over her oversensitive skin, she moaned and sighed. She kept her eyes closed but let her body feel every single peak of pleasure. In her mind, Nash was moving inside her, while in reality it was her fingers doing the work. Shaking her head she convinced herself it didn’t matter. Not here, alone in her shower, nothing mattered, except the end. And she raced to get there, pumping her fingers fiercely, letting the screams rip from her throat to echo throughout the bathroom. Until her muscles gripped her fingers and her release gripped her soul.
“Ah, ah, ahhhhh,” she screamed and then panted as her legs shook and she moved the hand from her breast to brace against the shower wall.
Falling in this shower, hitting her head, and knocking herself unconscious as a result of a much-needed orgasm was not on her to-do-list this morning.
Neither was letting thoughts of this man she didn’t even know interfere with her purpose for being here. This job was too important to get sidetracked. Especially by a man that surely had better things on his mind than the likes of her. Not that she didn’t think she was attractive. Mica was self-assured enough to know that she was a beautiful and intelligent woman. Pride and self-esteem had never been problems for her. Yet, it was out of habit that she’d learned to sense when someone concluded she was biracial and wondered more specifically about her biological identity. She didn’t care. She was proud of her Caucasian mother and now that she finally knew who he was, her Black father.
Banyon wanted to know more—about her identity and what she was doing at Bellamy Motors. Nash hadn’t looked at her as if he thought her racial make-up was offensive or a problem. She’d seen the look of people who thought she was less than because she obviously had a percentage of Black in her, so she knew it well. No, the look Nash had yesterday when they’d first met was full of questions. He wasn’t sure why she was there or what to do about her presence. Neither was Banyon. Mica wondered why she cared about one and didn’t give a damn about the other.
In actuality, she shouldn’t care about either. She hadn’t come here looking for a man or a relationship, or even a tryst. And while that dream had proven to not only be entertaining but also a reminder that it had been a very long time since she’d focused on physical satisfaction, now was not the time. Figuring out what was going on at the dealership and preserving the legacy her father had left for her was Mica’s priority. It had to be.
“Salut maman,” Mica answered the phone, speaking in her native French language.
She’d just finished applying her make-up. It was a little more than she’d done yesterday, a very light silvery blue shadow on her eyes, mascara, blush, an extra coat of her favorite gloss which was aptly named ‘Fussy’. Her clothes were also a little different today. She’d found the iron and had unpacked another one of her suitcases. Her slacks were navy blue and a little more fitted at the hips. She paired them with a blue camisole and a kelly green cardigan. Staring at herself in the mirror Mica smiled at the splash of color. She zipped the sides of the black leather booties on her feet and then fluffed the big curls she’d proudly accomplished with the curling iron fifteen minutes ago.
“Just checking on you,” Cecile replied in English. Her mother spoke both English and French fluently and had made sure that Mica did as well. “How was your first day at the office?”
More than satisfied with how she looked, Mica moved away from the mirror and headed to the bed to toss the tube of gloss into her purse.
“I wouldn’t actually call it an office,” she told her, reverting to English as well. “It’s an actual dealership. Like people really come there to buy motorcycles.”
Mica tucked the purse under her arm and switched off the light before exiting the bedroom.
“Well, that’s what the solicitor told you wasn’t it?”
Mica nodded and replied, “That’s correct.”
It had taken her a few times of calling Finksburg a solicitor and him smiling politely before reminding her that in America the term ‘lawyer’ was more commonly used. Mica was actually happy she’d recalled the change in terminology when Banyon had referenced the lawyer yesterday. The last thing she needed was for that guy to have any cause to correct her.
“So how did you like it? Or rather, how did they like finding out that you are now their boss?” Cecile added a little chuckle. “I’m sure it’s quite a bit to swallow considering you are probably the youngest person in that place.”
“That might just be true,” Mica replied. “The part about me being the youngest. I only met a couple of people yesterday. The general manager and the shop manager. I plan to meet everyone else today.”
“So, you are still determined to go through with this? You plan to stay in America and run that company?”
At the start of this conversation her mother had sounded cheerful. Now, there was a bit of grief in her tone. Mica recognized it because she felt it herself. She’d left a life in Paris. Her graduation was supposed to take place in three months, but she would not be there. Luckily—overachiever that she was—Mica already had more than enough credits to complete her MBA. She had achieved that goal. Now, it was time for her to work on another one.
“I spoke to you just before the holidays about the fact that I intended to come here and spend time getting to know my father as soon as I graduated,” Mica said to her mother.
“Yes. You did. But I thought of that as a visit. Nothing permanent.”
Mica was downstairs now. She’d set her purse near her briefcase on the old worn couch with a hideous quilt thrown over its back. When she came in tonight, she was going to pack that in a box, far out of her sight. That was a promise.
She sighed because she knew Cecile was not going to like what she was about to say. But her mother had brought up this topic and Mica wasn’t going to back down from it.
“He was my father,” she said quietly. “For twenty-three years I didn’t even know he existed.”
“I’ve told you my reason for keeping that from you already,” Cecile said.
“I know you did,” Mica replied.
Cecile sighed heavily. “We had a summer fling. I knew I wasn’t planning to stay in the States and he knew that too. So, when my contract was up, I packed my bags and I left. Bellamy did not even go to the airport with me.”
“You didn’t tell him you were leaving that day, did you?” Mica asked.
She’d had many questions after talking to her father that first time. The break-up between him and her mother was one of the first things they discussed over the phone.
Cecile sighed. “He knew I would not be there forever.”
“You’re right. He did know that what you had was a ‘fling’ as you put it. What he didn’t know was that the fling had produced a daughter. You didn’t bother to call or write to tell him about me.”
“I don’t know what you want me to say that I haven’t already said to you, Mica. No. I did not call and tell him I was pregnant. We were not supposed to tie each other down. That was one of the first things we agreed on. He did a good job of living his life without you anyway.”
Mica didn’t dispute that fact. Bellamy Anderson had built a successful company and had been quite content with his single lifestyle, until he realized he’d had a daughter.
“He certainly did, until he opened that magazine and saw the pictures of us. The article was about successful single mothers and their daughters. It hurt him because you didn’t have to be a single mother. He swore he would have been there, had he known,” Mica said.
“Okay,” Cecile conceded. “So, I was wrong. I should have told him and I did not.”
“And you’re not glad that he reached out to me after seeing those pictures. You wish I’d never found out about him,” Mica continued, knowing in her heart that this was how her mother truly felt about the situation.
“I wish for whatever will make you happy, Mica. If the fact that I kept your father away from you for most of your life upsets you, I apologize. But I cannot go back and undue what I thought was right at the time.”
It was never right to keep a child from their parents. That’s how Mica felt. In some circumstances, at least. Had Bellamy been a danger to her or to Cecile, then Mica would have understood. But he was simply a man that would have been elated to know that he was going to be a dad. Instead, Cecile hadn’t told him and years that Mica could have spent with Bellamy had already passed them by. Mica had spent exactly eighteen days in person with her father before he died. Their emails, texts and phone conversations had grown in number over the two years. She’d been looking forward to coming here after her graduation to spend a few months getting to know him and the type of life he’d had, but that wasn’t meant to be.
“None of us can go back, maman. And that’s just what it is. Now is about the present. I understand that,” Mica told her. “That’s why I’m heading back to the dealership today, to get on with things there.”
“Do you really think that will work?” Cecile asked, the relief in her tone at the change in conversation was immediately recognizable.
“I’m going to try my best to save the business that meant so much to him.”
“And how are you going to do that? You don’t know anything about motorcycles,” Cecile asked.
That was true, but with her mother’s skeptical tone, Mica decided she was going to rectify that situation today.
“I’m going to figure it out,” she said.
“And then what? When you save this dealership what are you going to do? Are you going to live in Virginia for the rest of your life? Waste your MBA on a bike shop and live in what, Bellamy’s cramped one bedroom apartment?”
“Actually, he owned a really nice house,” Mica told her mother about the place she had inherited. “It has land with trees and a garage. It looks just like one of the houses in those John Hughes teen movies you introduced me to. I like it.” Mica looked around and nodded her head as if to confirm her own words.
“So that’s it. You’re going to stay there,” Cecile said flatly.
“I’m going to see if this is the perfect space for me. My father was happy here, so I’m going to take the time to see if I can be too,” she stated with finality.
Before her mother could say another word Mica politely ended the call with the excuse that she had to get to work. Which, really, wasn’t an excuse since now she was running later than she’d wanted to be. Her intention had been to get there early so she could walk around the building one more time. She also wanted a chance to talk to whichever employees arrived before Nash and Banyon. She wanted to know how they felt about the business. Now, however, none of that was probably going to happen, but that was okay, she had something else in mind she wanted to do this morning. Something she wasn’t totally certain was going to go over well, in light of the heated dream she had last night.
“Can I ride one?”
Nash lifted his head the moment he heard those words. He’d told himself that he was too busy to deal with her today. He had a deadline which expired in a few days. That was when he’d promised the chief engineer at Blackbond that he would have his final design submissions to him.
The Blackbond Group was a relatively new American Black owned and operated automotive company based in Alexandria. The company was comprised of auto and motorcycle design, manufacturing, and sales departments, which up until last month only worked on special orders and show-ready designs. But rumor had quickly spread that the owner and former president of the Platinum Ryders, Fabian “Fury” Mathias was planning to open showrooms up and down the east coast in the next two years. If they liked these designs, Nash could finally branch out and have his own line of bikes on the market. It was a phenomenal opportunity, one he owed partially to Bell for bringing him here to work when Nash had no place else to go.
In the years that he’d worked sweeping the floors and cleaning the tools in the shop Nash began to learn more and more about bikes—how they worked, what type of engines were better, and how to design a desirable and marketable machine. That had always been Nash’s thought when it came to bikes—how could he do this better? Well, he’d finally perfected some designs. Bell had seen the preliminary ones back in November, just before he died. He’d liked them and was actually pretty excited about having a line of bikes coming out of Bellamy Motors that was designed by one of their own. Bell had been the one to call Zayn Jamison in to have a peek at the designs. Zayn rode with the Platinum Ryders and Bell had grown up with Zayn’s father and uncles. It was a month after Bell died when Zayn—whom Nash had also seen when he’d hung out with the Ryders all those years ago—called Nash to ask about the designs again, saying he had a manufacturer that he thought would be interested in producing the bikes.
At first it felt like a betrayal against the man who had given him everything and the dealership Nash had come to love as his own. Then, when Earl had come in one day making more cuts in their supply budget and announcing that he was going to start sending the foreign made bikes out to be repaired, Nash knew he had to make a future for himself elsewhere. Earl was going to run this place into the ground by cutting corners and salaries, and giving their work to third parties that may not have been as good or as dedicated to the customers as Nash and his staff were.
With all that going on, the last thing Nash had time for was the fine ass accountant who had just waltzed into his shop wearing those tight pants and giving an almost luminous smile that if he were of a mind to admit, sent lust shooting straight to his dick. He’d hoped that if he kept his head down, he could ignore her. Waking up with a hard dick because he’d thought about touching every inch of her tight little body all night long, was not a pleasurable experience. He’d vowed that today he would remain focused and stay far away from her.
“Excuse me?” Webby asked her.
He’d lifted his six foot, four and a half inch, one hundred- and fifty-pound (soaking wet) body up from the stool he sat on when he was doing intricate free-hand artwork and smiled as he approached her.
“I want to take a ride,” she said once more, her crisp accent echoing throughout the room. “On one of these.”
She pointed at the row of six bikes lined along the far wall of the shop.
“Well, I’ll gladly take you for a ride, miss,” Webby told her.
He was still holding his paintbrush in his hand even as his tongue came out to stroke his pierced bottom lip.
“You have a bike to finish,” Nash interrupted.
“I got all day,” Webby said without looking at Nash.
“No,” Nash continued in a steely tone. “You do not. Customer’s coming in at three to see the final art.”
Webby’s head snapped around until he was now glaring at Nash. “It needs twenty-four to forty-eight hours to dry properly.”
Nash didn’t blink. “He knows that, but he’s a bit anxious so I told him he could come on down and have a look. That means you’d better get to finishing that up seeing as it’s almost noon.”
The frown on Webby’s face said he didn’t like the words Nash spoke.
Nash didn’t give a fuck.
He’d already gotten up from his desk and was now standing right beside Mica.
“Why don’t you tell me what brings you down here?” he asked her when Webby had given him one last grimace before walking away.
She cleared her throat and licked her lips.
Nash almost groaned as he watched her tongue spreading moisture over already glossed lips, thinking that her tongue and lips would feel heavenly on his dick.
“I want to know more about the bikes. I’ve been looking at price sheets and sales receipts all morning and I’m curious as to what all the fuss is about,” she said, in a quiet, but strong voice.
He could take her over to his desk and explain his drawings to her, or he could walk her back into the showroom and go through all of their stock outlining the pros and cons of each one and reasoning the sales price. Or he could simply do as she’d asked—which was actually one of the best ways to see what all the fuss was about—and take her for a ride.
“Go get your coat and come ride with me,” he said, his tone just as succinct as hers had been.