15. Mahasin Paris Summers #2
“Then go stand your big ass out in the sun. I bet between the shine off this fabric and your sweat glazing that neck, you’ll look like a big-ass lava lamp.”
As bad as I wanted to curse his ass out, I couldn’t help but laugh.
And what made it even funnier—he was dead-ass serious. Clearly annoyed by my antics and the fact that I’d cut him off while he was trying to comfort me.
My laugh must have been contagious because he let out a hearty one himself.
“If you don’t like the dress, take it off. Here, let me help.”
Gage spun me around, so I was now standing in front of him, facing that dreadful-ass mirror. He lowered my zipper and gently peeled the gown from my body, letting it pool at my feet—leaving me exposed in my matching black lace bra and panty set. My belly was a paid actress.
“Look how perfect you are, Mahasin.” He slid his arms around my middle and lifted my belly from the front, carrying the extra weight for me.
The relief was instant. The pull in my lower back eased, and the pressure on my knees and ankles lightened.
I let out a sigh of relief that I didn’t know I’d been holding.
“There she go,” he murmured against my hair. “Breathe.”
I closed my eyes. Chris Brown’s “She Ain’t You” played over the boutique’s speakers. It must have been someone’s favorite song because they turned it up so loud, I could feel the floor vibrating under my feet.
“Look,” he said, eyes on me in the mirror. “You see what I see?”
I sniffed. “Yeah, a walrus.”
He chuckled. “No. I see a beautiful woman carrying my daughter and giving every other pregnant woman a run for their money.”
“That’s not what the mirror says.”
“Fuck that stupid mirror.” He dipped his head and pressed his mouth to the side of my neck. It wasn’t sexual, but it did feel right. “You’re beautiful. You hear me?”
I sighed. “Yeah, I guess.”
He said it again, slower. “You. Are. Beautiful.”
I nodded because my throat felt tight and closed in.
I couldn’t get the words out. Tears began spilling again.
I didn’t feel beautiful at all, but the fact that he thought I was felt reassuring.
I built a career being strong for other women, and in this moment, I couldn’t muster any of that strength for myself.
But I didn’t have to. I didn’t have to fake a smile or pretend—I could fall apart, and Gage would be right there to catch me.
He kept holding my belly up, rocking us back and forth to the music.
His thumbs splayed gently over my skin as he slowly let my belly down.
I could feel his breath against my ear, cool and minty from the gum he was chewing.
He kissed my hair, my cheek, and then the edge of my jaw.
His kisses were cautious, as if places like my lips had yellow tape on them.
He wasn’t trying to cross a line, but my body yearned for him to do so.
My hands drifted up without me telling them to, finding the back of his neck. I massaged there, feeling the tightness in his muscles—or better yet, the resistance. He began to mouth the words of the song on my neck, his lips warm and smooth.
?? “When she touches me, I’m wishing that they were your hands.” ??
He raised his face to place his cheek against mine, and we both stared into the mirror as he continued to sing the words.
?? “And when I'm with her, it’s only 'bout the sex. With you, I had a bad romance.” ??
Returning his lips to my neck, his kisses got a little less innocent, a little more lingering. I felt heat slide under my panties, and between my legs began to bloom.
He whispered, “And if I could just trade her in, I would.”
His hands slid from under my belly to my hips, and he began to knead slowly. This type of massage was taught in Lamaze—not only did it relieve trauma, but it could also bring on the most fruitful orgasm. I wondered which one Gage was trying to accomplish at this moment.
He slowly pulled me back, flushed against him, and I could feel how much he wanted me too.
“Cause nobody compares to you, no, yeah.” That last line came out more like a statement than a melody.
“Gage,” I whispered, but I had a feeling it came out more like a moan.
“Lift your leg and let your foot rest on here,” he nodded towards the seating bench.
Doing as I was told, I lifted my leg and allowed my foot to rest flat on the bench.
Gage pressed his thumb into the groove where my thigh met the side of my pussy, tracing firm and lazy expert circles.
He was well into what our Lamaze instructor called the Pelvic Bloom Massage.
Those circles turned to movements of up and down, causing my lips to spread, my clit to swell, and my nectar to fill between my petals.
“Ahh,” I moaned softly.
“Gage, what are you doing?”
He used his free hand to slightly spread my other leg apart and used his index and middle finger to apply the same pressure and motion to the other side. I felt my body give way as I leaned deeper into his chest.
“Oh my, Gage, wait” I could barely catch my breath, let alone make out a sentence.
“Shhh, relax, mama,” he whispered with a smirk.
“Look how beautiful you are—elevated like this—skin warm, breath labored, and lips slightly parted. Your hair is so full and long, your nails are strong and shiny, and your eyes look like stars. Don’t ever call yourself anything less than perfect, you hear me? ” He gently bit my neck.
“Yes, yes, I hear you,” I breathlessly responded.
“Don’t close your eyes, Mahasin. Look at youself, look at us in this mirror,” he ordered as he continued his pressure building massage on my thigh gaps. “You think I’d give you my first everything if I thought you were less than perfect?”
“No,” I moaned.
I placed one of my hands on top of his and did my best to guide them to the bottom of my panties to rub my pussy.
He purposely grazed between my lips on top of my panties as if he was only doing that to return his fingers to their original position.
He could pretend like he didn’t know what he was doing, all he wanted, but I knew better.
“Let’s keep it safe, Dollface. I don’t want you to be the bad person. I’ll take on that role alone,” he said. “Just relax and let me help you release… your tension.”
Slick ass. He knew to add that tension part to insinuate that he was giving me a therapeutic massage and not purposely causing me to ruin my panties.
My breath hitched, and my legs began to tremble. Unable to control myself, I creamed all through my panties.
“Good girl,” he whispered with a smirk. “See, I pay attention in class.”
Paris Summers
He was late. Again.
I sat in my living room in my three-bedroom townhouse in a dress I picked out just for him.
A tight, black, leave-little-to-the-imagination ensemble that said, I’m expensive but fun.
The city was live tonight—music playing continuously, heavy traffic up and down the blocks, and the billboards seemed to shine a lot brighter in the night sky—but none of that soothed the tightness in my chest or distracted me enough to forget that I was pissed.
I checked the time on my Rolex and picked up my phone to see if I’d missed any calls or notifications from text messages.
He was supposed to pick me up over an hour ago.
Yet here I am, pacing my hardwood floors, without a call or a text to simply say, Hey, baby, I’m running late.
Nigga just had me sitting here, waiting.
“He got me fucked up,” I murmured to myself.
And no, I didn’t give grace. No, there was no thought in my mind that he could probably be laid in a ditch somewhere, because I knew exactly where his only-eat-the-crust-of-the-pizza-head-ass was. He was with… her.
He didn’t even try to hide the shit anymore.
His ass would straight up tell me not to wait up because he was taking Mahasin shopping or to an appointment, and it could be all day.
I guess I couldn’t be mad at that, because I did bust him in the head and wreck his office because I felt like he wasn’t divulging the whole truth.
But still! Doctor visits? Craving runs? Baby shower planning?
And Mahasin’s bougie ass had the nerve to invite me.
At first, when she popped up pregnant, I thought the little bitch was going to be a thorn in my side—messing up my lifelong plan and shit.
But when Gage explained that their interaction would be only financial, and that he was solely focused on the relationship between him and his daughter, I calmed down.
My mother told me not to worry, because a rich man always had a stray baby somewhere.
And that I shouldn’t let anything come between what I rightfully earned.
And she was right. If I walked away now, all this scheming and pretending I did would be for nothing.
Wasted time was way worse than wasted money.
Checking my social media pages, a memory of me on the set of this diner scene popped up.
However, the only acting I was doing was pretending I wanted to be there.
Between my fake socializing and interest in people’s stories about being starving artists, I was tempted to abandon this mission and find a new niche.
However, this one would cause me to lose a friend, Kelsey.
Kelsey and I met at a boutique where we argued over the last pair of denim-washed, rhinestone jean shorts.
She swore she was in line before me—and she was—but because my antics were worse than a junkyard dog, the owner begged her to let me keep the shorts and promised her a private viewing of the new inventory next week.
I smirked, wearing victory all over my face.
That was until my fucking card declined.
“Run that shit again,” I demanded of the store clerk.
“Miss, that is against store policy to rerun a declined card. Please leave your items here at the counter and return another day when you have some money,” she sassed.
“Why, you little bit—”
“It’s okay, Camille. You can add her little $750 total to mine.”