Authors: Dwayne S. Joseph
Eye for an Eye (8 page)
17
“Lisette?”
I turned around. It was Friday night. Nearly midnight. The witching hour. S.O.B.'s in SoHo. Wyclef Jean was performing. I was standing by the bar, moving to the rhythm with a cosmopolitan in my hand. People danced, jumped, and whined to the Caribbean fire Wyclef was spewing. Haitians were inside and frenetically waved bandanas with their country's flag printed on them. Other islands were represented as well. Trinidad, Barbados, Jamaica, Puerto Rico, St. Thomas. The crowd was young, hip, dressed to impress, sweaty, drunk, and having a damn good time.
I looked at Ryan Scott as though I'd never seen or talked to him before. I'd walked by him minutes ago, making sure to brush by him as I did. I'd given him five minutes. He approached me in three.
Above Wyclef's orders for the crowd to “Wave ya rag!” Ryan said, “Ryan . . .”
I gave him another who-the-hell-are-you look.
He said, “From Nordstrom's. You rescued me with my slacks.”
I gave a nod of recognition. “I remember now.”
He took a step closer toward me. A few inches away now. I could smell the cologne he wore and the alcohol on his breath. “You never called.”
I gave no apology as I looked at him. “My possibly turned into a no. There was no reason to call.”
He frowned. “Wish you would have called to tell me that.”
“Didn't think you could handle the rejection.”
“I'm a big boy.”
I licked my lips suggestively. He was wearing a powder blue polo that fit tightly around the biceps, with black slacks, and black leather shoes. I said, “I'm sure you are.”
Ryan clenched his jaw as his eyes traveled over me. I had on a white, button-down shirt with thin, black stripes that hugged my torso and accentuated my C cups. Black pants covered my legs. Black stilettos, with three-inch heels, were on my feet. I was all business and damn sexy.
He said, “I guess it was good for you that you didn't call.”
“And why is that?”
“Because I have an uncanny ability to turn noes into yeses.” His tone was serious and thick with arrogance, as was the look he gave me.
I said, “Is that right?”
“Definitely.”
“And you think your abilities would have worked on me?”
He shrugged. “Women just seem to be powerless when I turn on the charm.”
I cocked the right corner of my mouth upward. “You're a cocky son-of-a-bitch, aren't you?”
He shook his head. “Not cocky. Just confident.”
I smiled. “Well, I'm not like most women.”
His turn to smile. “That was obvious the first moment I laid my eyes on you.”
I took a sip of my cosmo.
His smile widened. “I can't believe I ran into you again.”
“It's a small world.”
“I think it's fate.”
“Fate? And what makes you say that?”
“This is New York. Small world doesn't apply here.”
“I see.”
“I think someone has it in for us.”
I cocked an eyebrow. “Someone like who?”
“Someone who knows we'd make beautiful music together.”
I looked at him.
He looked at me.
Wyclef was insisting that everyone “Jump and wave!”
I said, “And what about the music you make with your wife? Isn't that beautiful?”
The corners of his mouth dropped a notch. “Our notes have fallen flat,” he said.
“So now you're looking for a new instrument to make music with?”
“I wasn't looking for anything before. But now that fate has put us together again . . .”
“You're a bold man.”
He shrugged. “You get nothing in life if you don't go after it.”
I nodded. Drank down the rest of my cosmo. Said, “True.”
“Can I buy you another?”
I thought about it for a moment, then said, “A Mojito.”
“I'll be right back.”
He made a move to walk past me, but before he did, he stopped and without warning or hesitation, leaned forward and pressed his lips against mine.
It was a smooth move and caught me completely off guard.
I could have pulled away. Could have adjusted my stance, squared my shoulders, and hit him with a right crossâsomething I was trying to get the women in my Wednesday night kickboxing class to perfect.
But I didn't.
Instead I opened my mouth to accept his tongue, which he slid in deftly.
As Wyclef continued to make the crowd party as though they were parading up and down Eastern Parkway in Brooklyn on Labor Day, Ryan and I kissed as if we were fucking.
Ravenous.
Forceful.
Deep.
Our tongues were out of control as though they were following Wyclef's orders.
Marlene had told me once that her ex, Steve, fucked as if he'd invented the act. She'd almost been right, but Kyra's ex, Myles, could have given Steve a tutorial. I didn't know how well Ryan could fuck, but if it was anything like his kiss, then he deserved a medal.
It had been awhile since I'd been fucked. More than six months to be exact. Before Kyra. Before the lesson she'd tried to teach me. The lesson that fucked with me more than I'd ever admit to anyone. One that I barely admitted to myself.
The crowd in S.O.B.'s went wild suddenly. Shakira just stepped onto the stage to perform her record-breaking collaboration with Wyclef, “Hips Don't Lie.”
The volume grew.
People screamed.
Ryan kissed me. Demonstrated what his tongue could do to me. He threw his arm around my waist. Pulled me into him. Pressed his dick against me. It was hard. So fucking hard.
More than six months.
My pussy was wet. Dripping. In need of being pounded.
Ryan's dick throbbed to Wyclef and Shakira's rhythm.
I pushed against it, my hips refusing to lie, letting him know they wanted to be held firmly.
Wyclef and Shakira made the revelers inside of the club lose their minds.
My pussy gushed liquid fire.
Wyclef and Shakira were at the breakdown now. Wyclef was rapping. No one inside of the club was standing still, save for two people fucking with their lips.
As Wyclef finished his rap and Shakira began singing again, Ryan pulled away suddenly and looked down at me. His eyes were intense, dark, filled with promise and purpose. He said, “Do you still want that drink?”
I looked back at him. My pussy throbbed. Erupted again.
Wyclef and Shakira said, “No fighting.”
No fighting.
I was on the job and I wasn't going to fight it.
I said, “Let's go.”
Ryan smiled arrogantly. It turned me on.
I turned and headed for the exit.
Ryan was a step behind.
18
At S.O.B.'s.
Standing beside the bar.
Lip-locked while Wyclef and Shakira made everyone's hips move, while theirs told no lies.
Ryan and I were oblivious. To the revelers. To the sounds coming through the speakers. Oblivious. We were going at it, our tongues acting out pornographic scenes we created in our minds. At S.O.B.'s it wasn't real. Wasn't tangible. We were just kissing. Just mentally fucking.
Now, in the middle of the king-sized bed in the closest hotel we could find, the fucking was very, very real.
I was on top. My heels were flat on the mattress. My knees were bent at ninety-degree angles. My fingers were clasped around the headboard. I wanted to feel each and every thrust in the worst way.
I flexed my quadriceps, pushed myself up to the tip of Ryan's latex-covered shaft, and dropped myself down. Hard. I was in control. Taking it the way I wanted it. Taking it as deep as I needed it. I flexed my quads again, pushed myself up, and slammed myself down.
Ryan said, “Shit,” as I tightened my walls around his deliciously hard shaft. He said, “Shit,” again as I bore down and moved my hips counterclockwise.
“Shit.”
He clamped his hands around my hips, his fingers digging into my flesh, and thrust upward, trying to send his dick into my abdomen. It hurt. Gave me the chills.
I looked down at him. Beads of sweat glistened on his bald head and over his sculpted chest. I said, “Do it again.”
His ego stroked, he did. Harder this time.
It hurt even more.
I loved it.
I constricted the walls of my pussy. Felt his shaft pulsate.
His eyes closed to slits as he bit down on his bottom lip. I could see it in his eyes and in the tightening of his jaw; his release was coming.
So was mine.
Bumps rose along my arms as I pressed down on him and rocked my hips back and forth. The friction made me moan. Made me “Oooh.” Made me close my eyes. Made me arch my back, raise my chin to the ceiling. My hands were still fastened around the headboard as I moved faster. My breathing quickened. My heart beat heavily.
Ryan said, “Goddamn . . . goddamn . . . shit . . . shit . . .”
I turned the speed and intensity up a notch. Ryan had been keeping up with me, but now I was in a gear that didn't exist.
He couldn't handle it.
He said, “Shit, Lisette. Shit. I can't hold it.”
I moaned.
Increased my speed even more.
Ryan said, “Shiiiiit!” and bucked upward as he exploded into his condom.
His thrusts made me gasp. Made me grit my teeth. Made me release the headboard and place my palms on his chest, as lava erupted from deep inside of me.
It felt . . . felt . . . felt so, so fucking good.
I dug my nails into his skin.
Ryan bucked several times and cursed again.
I worked my hips until my gushing ceased, and then sat still.
My heart was pounding as I took slow, deep breaths. Ryan looked up at me and smiled. “So . . . was it good for you?”
I looked down at him. I could have told him that he'd been impressive. Could have said that he and Myles were neck and neck. But I'd stroked his ego enough.
I slid off of him, rose from the bed, and pointed to his pecs. There were scratches where my fingernails had been. “The Mrs. won't be too happy about those.”
He shrugged. “The Mrs. has no sex drive. She'll never notice.”
I cocked an eyebrow. Whether his wife had a sex drive or not, Ryan was a natural-born womanizer. It didn't matter how good the woman was. It didn't matter how potent, sweet, tight, or wet her pussy was, men like Ryanâmen whose dicks couldn't be kept in checkâthey could never be satiated. For them, cheating wasn't about the act. Cheating was just about the need to feed their ego. There was a power to being unfaithful. They were taken men, yet with their looks, their virility and their charm, they had the ability to make a woman say to hell with her wedding rings and the fact that they would simply be regarded as just the other woman or in many cases, just an easy lay. The Ryans of the world got off on that.
I stared at Ryan as he lay back on the bed propped up by his elbows. Tall, chocolate with a sculpted physique. His sister-in-law had claimed that his body and his I-love-me-some-me attitude had no effect on her. That she'd never given in to any of his advances. Shante was either an in-the-closet lesbian or she'd flat-out lied.
Marlene had said that there were still good men in the world. That not all of them were lying, unfaithful, or abusive assholes. Not all of them were Ryans. I know there was truth to that. After all, one good man had rescued me from a rainstorm and saved my life. But as far as I was concerned, men like that were few and far between.
I said, “Too bad for her.”
He shrugged again. “It's her loss and your gain.”
“My gain? Are you implying that I'll want more?”
Ryan gave my naked body the once-over, bit down on his bottom lip a little as his eyes narrowed into an animalistic glare, and gave me a Terrance Howardâlaced smile. “You're forgetting about my uncanny ability.”
Ryan had game. I would give him that.
Lisette Jones would have fallen for the arrogance. She would have found the smiles, the looks, the style, the body, and the very good dick appealing and addictive. Ryan's game would have roped her in and then fucked her whole head up.
Ryan looked at me as though I was as pitiful as the long dead and buried Lisette Jones or the countless other pathetic women he'd played before. He looked at me as though I'd already been caught up in his web. He had game and uncanny abilities, but I had them too. And my abilities were going to cost him.
I bent down and picked up my matching black Victoria's Secret thong and bra, which had been discarded hastily along with the rest of our clothing as we'd made our way to the bed.
“You're leaving?” Ryan asked.
I slid into my thong. Put my bra on. Grabbed my white shirt and black slacks. I said, “Yes.”
Ryan frowned ever so slightly. He was trying to hide his disappointment. He'd thoroughly expected there to be a round two before we parted. “I was hoping you'd stay for a little bit.”
I put my shirt and pants on, then went to the mirror across from the bed. “I have somewhere to go.”
“At one-thirty in the morning?”
I looked at Ryan through the glass. His eyes had taken a darker turn. I said, “I'm not sure who you're talking to, but your frigid wife is at home.” My tone was sharp, biting, no-nonsense.
Ryan's eyes softened. “I'm sorry,” he said. “I just thought that what happened between us was damn good. Though, it was something we could and, shit, should do again. You may not want to admit it, but I know you do too.”
I pulled out my Lipglass, not lipgloss, from my purse. Wet, Wild, Wonderful by Mâ¢Aâ¢C. Bronze gold in color. My favorite one in their collection. I turned and faced him.
Tall. Chocolate. And a very good dick.
He was right.
The sex had been damn good.
I thought about feeling it again. I still had a few days before the ruse ended, and I would fuck up his world. Still had a few days to be pounded, to be fucked. Not a necessity, but a perk.
I let my eyes roam over his defined chest, his thick arms.
I thought about it.
But again, I had game too, and part of my game was to make them yearn for more.
I said, “Another time . . . another place.”
“Do you still have my card?” he asked, his voice heavy with disappointment.
No need to lie. I said, “I do.”
Ryan smiled. “Good. Use it this time.”
I gave him a smirk. “Maybe.”
“Just like the possibly?”
“Possibly turned into a no,” I said. “This time I'm saying maybe.”
He nodded. “I'll accept that.”
I looked at him for a moment and then without saying anything, turned and left.
Game.
He had it.
But his skills were no match for mine.
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