Chapter 39
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Lot
Let me watch you take it.
New York hasn’t changed. Still cusses you out for walking too slow. Still tucks you in with sirens instead of lullabies. Still fits me like worn-in jeans.
But I’m missing my people. Missing Dice. His humor, his cocky smirk, his hugs and cuddles (I know, who even am I?).
It’s only been three days, though it feels longer.
The biggest adjustment has been not being able to see him.
Touch him. After weeks of practically living together, it’s like quitting cold turkey.
Thank God for technology. Video calls help, but it’s not the same as skin and breath or being in his arms.
I knew the distance would be hard. Knew it would give me too much time to think…
to doubt. I’m skeptical by nature. Ask anyone.
But I’m really trying not to look for problems where there are none.
Especially when Dice is giving me no reason for second-guesses.
He’s been consistent. Present. True to his words.
I still can’t believe he chased me to the airport, or what he did afterward. Walked straight into the lion’s den and told my father he loves me. I heard it from my mom, and damn if that didn’t make me melt like butter.
Mom was over the moon, of course. Maurice not so much. His trust will be hard-won. But I think—even though he won’t admit it—he’s got a new respect for Dice.
Meanwhile, Queenie’s taken to New York in full diva mode.
The first day, she yowled so loud when I went to get groceries, the landlord called about tenant complaints.
So instead of risking eviction, I bought a baby carrier.
Now, for the second day straight, she’s strapped to my chest like a furry marsupial, while I tag the front window of a natural hair salon that commissioned me to give them ‘gram and curb’ appeal.
Using spray paint and glass markers, I sketch the silhouette of a woman in profile.
Bohemian braids and twists bloom across the glass.
One coil morphs into the city skyline. Another dips into sound waves.
A third swirls upward, laced with affirmations: Textured & Untamed.
Curls Are My Crown. Braided & Blessed. I add soft edges to frame her bold gaze that conveys she’s fierce, radiant, and unstoppable.
When I step back to let it dry, I feel that buzz I always get when the art speaks back.
As I pack up for the day, Queenie yawns and nestles into my chest where the weight of the carrier pressing down on my jacket has given me major tittie sweat.
I lower my gaze to her. “You really living your best life and trying to ruin mine.”
“Meow.”
We head to the subway. As I board the crowded train, a man offers me his seat, clearly thinking I’m carrying a baby. I don’t correct him. The truth is too ridiculous.
Next stop? Cat training. Didn’t even know that was a thing until I desperately Googled support for feline bad behavior at midnight, after Queenie peed on my favorite top while maintaining eye contact. Just because I refused to give the demon a late-night treat. So I’m consulting a cat guru.
Paws-itive Connection has bright-painted walls, cat posters, and a polite receptionist who escorts me to a private studio with wood floors. I’m introduced to Dreya Greene. She’s around forty, waist-length hair, Birkenstocks, and paw-print earrings swinging proudly.
“Nice to meet you,” she says, eyeing the carrier. “This must be Queenie.”
“The diva herself. Wants what she wants, gets mad when she doesn’t get it, hates her crate, and loses her mind when left alone. She’s emotionally unhinged.”
Queenie growls like she’s defending her honor.
“Girl, don’t start,” I say, unclipping the straps to let her out. “You know I’m telling the truth.”
“I can see there’s a strong bond.” Dreya smiles. “But these behaviors must be stressful. Let’s talk about how I can help both of you.”
I give her the Queenie backstory, and Dreya lays out a plan of positive reinforcement, consistent boundaries, a scratch pad, calming techniques, and something called clicker therapy. The whole time, Queenie sits curled on my lap like an angel… until Dreya rolls out a crate for a test run.
Queenie leaps on top and hisses like she’s auditioning for The Exorcist.
“Oh my.” Dreya recoils. “I see what you mean.”
We spend the next thirty minutes trying to coax her inside and get nothing but theatrics. Flinging her body like a toddler throwing a tantrum at the mall. After the fourth attempt, Dreya suggests a chamomile diffuser and wine.
“Can cats have wine?” I ask, all for spiking girlfriend’s water dish.
“I meant for you.”
Queenie glares. I sigh, wondering if it’s hopeless and I’m just stuck with a diabolical cat. But I make a follow-up appointment, pick up the items from the store, and grab a bottle of Chardonnay for myself.
At home, I unload the bags and add chamomile oil to the diffuser and the diluted mixture to a spray bottle that I mist around her crate.
Lured by the scent, Queenie inches forward.
I press the clicker as instructed—the noise apparently more effective than verbal affirmations—and reward her with a treat.
I do the same when she sniffs the crate.
Then, as if she’s onto me, that’s as far as she’s willing to go. But I feel somewhat encouraged.
I leave her occupied with a stuffed shrimp toy shaped like a croissant while I hop in the shower, rinsing off the street grime and boob sweat.
Under the water spray, inspiration strikes.
I hurry from the shower, barely dry off as I rush past Queenie wrestling Spider-Man, and head to my drafting table.
Wrapped in a towel, I drop into the chair, and on a fresh sheet of paper, I immortalize Queenie’s reign of terror in charcoal.
First, I sketch a cartoon of a frazzled woman chugging wine, with spinning equations above her head, and a cat grinning devilishly beside her. Below the graphic:
Cat Mom Math
Wine + More Wine = Survival
The next one is of a woman holding a goblet, surrounded by toppled plants, a mauled sneaker, and scratched furniture, the cat smirking proudly. It reads:
Cat Moms Survive on Sauvignon
The third one is a minimalist line art of a golden retriever with an adorable grin, sitting beside a cat giving maximum side-eye.
If I Wanted Affection, I Would’ve Gotten a Dog.
And finally, for the raw truth.
I sketch a woman strapped to a chair, the leash wrapped around her, the end held by a cat wearing a crooked crown.
Held Hostage by a Furry Diva.
Queenie wanders in mid-sketch. I pick her up and rub her head. “Thanks to you, The Cat Mom Collection is officially born.” Merch and social media ideas are already lighting up my brain.
Later that evening, I’m curled in the corner of the couch, glass of wine in hand, catching up on Harlem episodes when my iPad rings at ten thirty.
Dice. Like clockwork, every night since I got back.
I hit accept. My insides play hopscotch as he appears on the screen—black tank, durag, lounging on his couch, one arm folded beneath his head.
The pose lifts his chest and exposes his underarm. Casual, but intimate.
“Hey, Web,” he says with that slow, sinful grin.
“Hey, Jones,” I reply, pausing the show. “How was Whet Wednesday?”
“The usual. Steady, but not jumping. I suggested a midweek party. Hump Up the Volume. Maurice nearly had a heart attack.”
“I can just imagine. But I think it’s a great idea.”
“I’ll keep working on him. Come up with other theme names that might pass the prude test.”
“Don’t compromise on your brand or water it down. You’re edgy and funky. Push for what you want.” Or take your talents elsewhere. But I don’t say that.
“Just tryna keep the peace right now. Don’t want to make it difficult or put you in the middle.”
“I’m not worried about that. I think Maurice will come around about us… eventually. But if he doesn’t, it changes nothing. You don’t have to soft pedal to keep the peace for me.”
“I know. I just… family’s important.”
The way he says it, with a dip in his voice, has the note of a little wistful boy tucked inside the man.
Makes me wonder if he’s thinking about the father who didn’t stick around.
The mother who chose crime over him. Sure, he’s got C and me—but that kind of early loss leaves echoes.
And maybe… lately, after opening up about his past, those echoes have gotten louder.
“How was your day?” he asks, changing the subject.
“Productive. Started the salon mural and took Queenie to therapy.” I launch into the chamomile bootcamp that followed last night’s saga.
“She really peed on your shirt?”
“Stared me in the eye while she did it. Then this morning, she flipped her food bowl after tasting my scrambled eggs.”
“Did you nuke them?”
“No. I used a skillet like a civilized adult.”
“You throwing shade, but there’s the problem. Queenie only likes them tech-infused. Pop ’em in on high for fifty seconds and they’re soft as a pillow.”
“Ssskt.” I cut him side-eye. “I’m not catering to her.”
“Says the woman who bought a baby carrier for her cat and is spritzing her house with floral tea.”
“For practical purposes.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Whatever. But I’m about to turn pain into profit.” I tell him about the new product line.
He grins, eyes shining. “Those are brilliant, Web.”
“I’ll test them out on social media, see how they track.”
“Props to the queen for the inspo. Where is she, anyway?” he asks.
“Hiding somewhere. Why, you miss her?”
“Not nearly as much as I miss you.”
“Yeah?” I sip my wine, slow and teasing. “What do you miss?”
“Everything,” he murmurs. “Waking up beside you. The way you bury half your head under the pillow. Your scent. Not just the body butters. You. The crease behind your knees that’s a little ticklish.
How you shiver when I kiss the curve of your neck.
The softness of your tits and belly. The sexy jiggle of your ass when I spank it.
The sweet taste of your mouth… and between your legs. ”
“Mmm. Trying to turn me on, Jones?”
“Like it’s my full-time job.”
“If I were there, I’d give you a raise and suck you dry.”
His groan is low and ragged. “Give me a li’l something.”
We’ve sent sexy texts, said things over video to work us up, but nothing more. I set my glass aside and peel off my top, letting the snug satin bra do its thing. The nude brown is nearly the color of my skin, giving the illusion that I’m bare.
“Damn, baby. What’re you wearing on the bottom?”
“Really short shorts.”
“Show me.”
I prop the iPad and stand, revealing fitted boy shorts that cling to my hips and thighs.
“Turn around,” he rasps, his hand moving out of the camera frame.
I bend slightly so the shorts ride up on my cheeks. I give him a teasing jelly roll and shoot a warning over my shoulder. “You better not be recording this.”
“I’m not. My hand’s busy.”
“Let me see.”
He tilts the camera, showing his hand buried in the front of his sweats.
“Take ’em off. And your tank too.”
As he strips, I drink in every flex of his chest, every ripple of his abs, the thick length of his gorgeous cock. He leans back, camera angled just right—face, chest, powerful thighs, and his hand wrapped tightly around the base.
“How far you wanna go, Web?”
“All the way.”
“Then lube up that plug.” His demand is low and husky. “Let me watch you take it.”
Ooh, so we’re playing that game. I go to my bedroom, quickly undress, slick the toy, and kneel on the bed with my back to the camera. I work it into my rosebud nice and slow, moaning as the pressure hits the right spot.
“Goddamn,” he breathes. “Lie back and open those legs. I wanna see every drop while you make yourself come.”
This is my first cybersex experience. But with Dice, there’s no hesitation. No shame. Just trust and heat. I do as he says, knees bent, thighs spread wide. One hand tugging my nipple, the other circling my clit.
“That’s it, baby.” His voice is like velvet over gravel. “I could come just from watching you.” He taps the app and sends the toy buzzing to life.
My back arches. “Oh God, Dice. I wish you were here.”
“Me too. I’d lick you all over. Your pussy, your ass—everywhere.”
He strokes faster, cupping his balls, groaning like he’s torn between agony and heaven.
“I want to ride you. Feel you under me… over me… inside me.” I thrust two fingers into my pussy. “I want you fucking me so deep I can feel it in my throat.”
“Christ, I’m about to blow,” he rasps, his chest rising with hard breaths.
I get there first. My body trembles, a cry ripping from my lips as my orgasm crashes through me like heat and lightning. I ride it out, hips bucking, watching his hand jack up and down in a rapid blur. Then he shudders as thick ropes streak his stomach. My name is like a sound of surrender.
“You’re so hot and sexy,” I whisper.
“All for you,” he murmurs, still pumping his cock through the aftershocks. “Fuck, Web. I need you.”
I smile, then kiss close to the screen. “Next Sunday, Jones.”
“Can’t wait.” He looks into the camera, eyes half-open. “I love you, baby.”
Those words never fail to stir something deep in my chest, like food for the soul. “I love you, too.”
We linger a little longer before saying good night. I go clean up, heart full, body blissed out, already counting the hours until we can do more than just watch.