11. Crestwood Gazette
I woke up with my husband’s tongue between my thighs. He lapped his tongue around my sensitive bud and began to suck me off the bone as if my pussy tasted like water ice. The sensation was all-consuming, and I tried to slide my ass up the bed.
“Don’t run, YaYa. You know I like to eat as soon as I wake up.”
I moaned out in pleasure as he lifted my legs for better access. He slapped my ass before diving back in with his tongue.
Zay was the best eater there was. He planted soft kisses on my lower lips and licked between each fold in various time successions alternating between fast and slow.
A soft gasp slipped out of me before I could stop it as Zayden’s large hand slid beneath my oversized T-shirt and palmed my breast as I poured out into his mouth.
My essence dripped from his beard, and he slapped my sensitive pearl with his hard and ready dick.
He positioned my legs around his neck and slid inside of my wanting pussy. My legs quivered as he delivered deep and passionate strokes.
“Uhhhh, Zayyyy… Ahhh baby.”
“Fuck me back, Bestie, you can’t be tapped out already.”
Zay knew I lived for his shit-talking. I began thrusting my hips upwards as he kissed my lips sloppily. Tasting myself on him always made me fuck him back harder.
“Zayyyyyy, fuckkkk. You’re so deep.” I tried to push him back.
“Nah. Move your hand. That’s the only way I know to be in my shit, YaYa.”
He continued to feed my pussy his dick and began to rub the top of my clit.
The sensation was so good that a tear ran down my cheek.
Zay kissed the tear and looked me in the eye. “Squirt for me, love.”
I felt my back arch, and this nasty ass Nigga pulled out and bent down in anticipation. My body obeyed him and squirted right into his mouth. I felt his warm cum ooze down my thighs after he sucked me dry.
I laid on my back and did my best to catch my breath. My husband drove me up a wall, but I loved the ground he walked on. Marriage had not made this man less dangerous.
If anything, Zay got worse with consistency. He was rich and fine. After twenty-two years together, he was more emotionally intelligent now, and my favorite part was knowing he was obsessed with me.
His lips trailed lower slowly while his beard brushed against my skin, making my thighs tighten instinctively around his waist.
“Zay, we can’t go another round.”
“Why the fuck not? Your pussy is leaking again. I can smell her.”
“The girls gon’ wake up.”
“That ain’t stopped us before.”
Unfortunately, he wasn’t wrong. As long as the door was locked, the music was on, and I had a pillow to cover my face, my man was gon fuck me.
I laughed softly just as his mouth found mine again.
He kissed deeper this time. The thing about Zay and I was, we understood each other without speaking.
Years ago, our love felt explosive. It was chaotic and fast. But now we were more intentional.
We chose each other time and time again and built something steadier than lust.
Zay lifted his head slightly, watching my face carefully, while he began to massage my boobs. He wasn’t playing fair; he knew nipple play would do it for me every time. Immediately, my body reacted, and I felt my legs slide open.
“I love when you open up for me,” he murmured softly.
Lord.
I hated how much praise affected me. I kissed him harder instead. His large hand gripped my thigh while he shifted above me slowly, muscles flexing beneath warm brown skin and tattoo ink I knew almost as well as my own body at this point.
“I’ve been busy all week,” he muttered against my mouth. “I missed my wife.”
“You saw me yesterday.”
“That was Campaign Kenya.”
I snorted softly. “Oh, so now I got personalities?”
“Yes.” He kissed my jaw slowly. “And this obedient one is my favorite one.”
His forehead rested against mine while both of us breathed quietly for a second.
Then, right on cue, I heard a tiny knock on the bedroom door.
“Mama?”
We froze immediately. Then I heard Amara’s voice. “Daddy?”
Zay closed his eyes dramatically. I burst out laughing.
“There goes your daughters.”
Another knock.
“Auntie,” Genesis whined louder now. “Aniyah said Amara was cheating on Roblox.”
“I WAS NOT,” Amara’s little voice yelled behind her.
“Yes, you were!”
Our house was chaos. Zay dropped his forehead into my shoulder dramatically.
“I miss silence.”
“No, you don’t. Because you never ever pull out. You like this shit.”
He chuckled. “You’re right.”
“Go save your children.”
“They your kids right now.”
“Zayden.”
He groaned loudly before kissing me one more time.
“Ladies, give me twenty minutes, I’ll make breakfast,” I called out.
Then he whispered against my mouth. “We’re finishing this later.”
He smacked my thigh lightly before finally climbing out of the bed.
After all these years, my husband still looked sinful walking away from me.
Zay took a quick shower and brushed his teeth. He opened the bedroom door dramatically.
“What emergency got y’all harassing tax-paying citizens at seven in the morning?”
Genesis immediately walked inside, carrying Amara’s iPad like evidence in a criminal case.
“She cheated.”
“I did NOT,” Amara yelled, emotionally, from behind her.
Aniyah walked in last, calm as ever, holding her own tablet.
“She used your credit card to buy game money,” she explained.
Zay blinked once. “I don’t see a problem. Your dad’s rich as fuck.”
I laughed so hard I nearly fell backward against the pillows. And just like that? Our house fully woke up.
By ten o’clock, my house looked like a tiny dance academy mixed with campaign chaos. Campaign volunteers moved in and out of the detached headquarters behind the estate, carrying laptops and coffee while little girls in ballet buns ran through my kitchen, eating strawberry waffles.
But as overstimulating as it was, I loved it.
There was a time I thought that our lives would never be still.
Zayden and I kept looking over our shoulders as we ran the operation at Cherry University.
It took a while before the millions we made from selling cocaine and oxy were washed in legal business ventures.
We had to build a rapport with local business owners on the same block as the dance studio.
It took three years to land our first government contract for trucking.
As much as I wanted to forget Charles and Miles’ betrayal, I was almost dead a few months ago. I still had scars that I tried to cover with rose tattoos and mindfulness breathing exercises in the morning, but the fact remains that I was almost a goner. So, for some, this noise would be annoying.
Others would hope their children would grab technology and stay far away from them, but for me, it was a blessing. I had the love of my life, our children, and my niece all under the same roof, screaming about absolutely nothing, and that felt magical.
“Genesis, stop mothering everybody,” I called while packing dance bags near the island.
“I’m helping,” she argued immediately while fixing Amara’s crooked bow.
“You’re tightening it too hard,” Amara complained dramatically.
Aniyah looked up from her homework calmly. “That’s because Genesis thinks she’s everybody’s mama.”
Genesis gasped loudly, offended. “I do NOT.”
“Yes, you do,” both twins said together.
I bit back a smile. It’s funny how Genesis acted more like me while my daughters behaved like their Aunt Channy.
The thing about those girls was they balanced each other perfectly.
Amara was soft-hearted and nurturing in a way that sometimes made my chest ache.
That baby noticed everything. She was in tune with others’ sadness and empathetic to a fault.
My sweet, dramatic baby cried during commercials and took every correction personally, like we were attacking her spirit.
Whereas Aniyah was pure emotion. Lord, that child was observant in a way that sometimes scared me. She was quiet but strategic, and she always listened before speaking. Too much like her daddy, honestly.
Zay walked into the kitchen dressed in a black quarter-zip and slacks, talking with his AirPods in.
“Yes.” He sounded calm. “Move the money through the education initiative account.”
I blinked slowly.
“Sir,” I called out immediately.
He looked toward me while still listening to the call.
“You are helping to run a mayoral campaign now,” I warned carefully. “Please stop sounding like a dictator before breakfast.”
The twins and Genny burst out laughing.
Zay smirked slightly before ending the call.
“Hating on successful Black businessmen at eight in the morning is crazy work.”
“You saying ‘move the money’ like a mafia boss in front of children is crazier.”
He walked over, kissing the top of my head automatically before stealing bacon from Aniyah’s plate.
“Daddy!”
“It’s a dad tax.”
“That’s theft.”
“That’s parenthood.”
I shook my head, smiling while watching him move around the kitchen with the girls.
Nobody would believe this was the same Zayden if they saw this version.
This man packed dance bags and learned ballet terminology.
He bought a heat press machine and a bedazzler to make dance mom and dad shirts for every competition.
He braided hair and was getting quite good at it.
Softness looked good on him, too, even if he pretended otherwise.
About an hour later, I stood inside the studio helping the girls stretch before rehearsal while sunlight poured through the large windows.
Tiny ballet slippers squeaked against the floor. Piano music floated softly through the speakers. Little girls giggled as they fixed buns and tights.
This studio, King’s Sweet Pirouette, was my safe place.
Dance always felt cleaner than the rest of my life, somehow.
That was one thing my mother, Sharon, did right.
She let me take ballet lessons. Even when funds were tight, and the church schedule became too busy, she kept that one commitment to me.