Making the Hook-Up (6 page)

He had collapsed against the shower walls when I thought I heard someone else and pulled back the shower curtain. Sure enough, there she was, fully clothed this time. This heifer was hard to shake; she kept coming back like some sort of boomerang.

Rick looked at her and groaned. “Jesus, I thought you were gone.”

She was staring at me again. “You were right,” she said, ignoring Rick. “I do like women and I really like you. Maybe we can get together sometime. I'd do anything for you.”

She looked so pitiful. I felt sorry for her. “I'll let you know,” I said. “Tell you what, why don't you go and clean up that milk on the kitchen floor while I think about it?”

She nodded meekly and left the bathroom.

“Are you going to…?” Rick started to ask, looking shocked.

“I might do her a favor here and there if she works hard enough. Maybe I'll even order her to fuck you once in a while. Would you like that?”

He nodded, looking dazed.

I looked at his flaccid, thick cock and then at him. “Why don't you go and lie down on my bed? Take a little nap, regain your strength. God knows you're going to need it.”

Like I said before, he wasn't dumb. “Good idea,” he said, a little smile on his lips.

 

 

 

 

 

Y
anni? Don't you think it's time we meet?” His voice was ocean deep and butter soft, warm and wild with need.

“Yes.”

Yes…
after waking her at two in the morning with, “Sorry, I have the wrong number.”

Yes…
after months of long daily discussions about everything from the Challenger spacecraft explosion and Dogon Cosmology, to global warming and its effect on the migration of monarch butterflies. Together they had analyzed Toni Morrison's metaphors in
Love
and
A Mercy,
and contemplated Picasso's “borrowing” horned figures from the Afro-Cuban artist, Wilfredo Lam. Religion and politics were the flesh and bone of their most lengthy and heated debates. Art talks were dessert.

Yes
…after months of her harsh rules:

1. No calling between the hours of 7:00 a.m. and 5:00 p.m., or after 11:00 p.m.

2. No personal questions.

3. No photo exchanges.

4. No requests to “upgrade” from platonic to committed
anything
.

5. No sex.

Yes
…even after he broke every single rule in the last week alone. He called whenever he chose, brazenly asked whatever he wanted to know and, in open defiance, sent her a sepia-on-silver photo of himself: phone pinned between his shoulder and jaw, completely nude, stroking his thick gleaming penis arched high above his taut fist. From the time and date on the digital atomic clock, he had clearly been talking to her. The subtle beauty was that the photo had been taken during their first serious conversation about sex. The sight of his muscled body, slight love handles and all, sent her fingers fluttering wildly into the moist folds and hungry crevices of her body.

At the time of the photographed call, Aden had been describing a hand-carved bench he purchased from a Ghanaian artist who had lived in Japan. It had been expertly designed by a master carver to provide an exotic array of sexual pleasures—a long boat-shaped hole in the center for adventurous sucking and fucking of blood-engorged pussies and dicks.

It had been thundering and lightning for an hour. Finally, a powerful storm began pummeling the earth. Its ancient fragrance filled the air.

“I remember you saying how you hate the rain. I'd be happy to come to you. Would you like me to bring the bench?”

“Yes. Aden, I don't really hate rain. I just don't like driving in it and thunder and lightning makes me…well…a little nervous.” Rain made her nervous, thunder and lightning terrified her, but nothing was coming between that gorgeous deep chocolate man in the photo and Yanni Roberts's pussy…but that hand-carved bench. Nothing!

“May I have the directions?”

“Yes.”

Halfway to her house, he called her on his cell. “You nervous about meeting? We can do it another time if you're uncomfortable with this.”

“I'm fine, Aden,” she said with the splatter from the shower-head splashing her body behind the beautifully etched heron in the glass of her shower door. “I'm just…”

“Wondering?”

“Yeah, wondering.”

“…if we're going to destroy something great by having sex?”

“That's always a possibility, Aden. What do
you
think?”

“I have the strongest feeling this is going to be the best decision either of us has ever made.”

“What if I'm too…?”

He answered for her, “Too evil in the morning, or when you get interrupted?”

“Yeah,” she chuckled, “I know I have a tendency to snap, when provoked.”

“I can handle that, but do you think you can handle me being too…”

She said warmly, “Too smart? Too witty? Too sweet? Too kind? Too…fuckin' persistent?” He smiled. She had only seen part of his smile in the photo, but she had felt them hundreds of times, like a sightless person senses a red light, a crowd, or a curb.

“Well, what if you don't like the way I look in person? You haven't seen my whole face, you know.”

“Please…let's not even entertain that kind of shallow bullshit, Aden. I've thought about this long and hard. I don't care what you look like.”

“Well, what if my head is too big or I'm too short for you, or something?”

“I can't believe you're doing this. Do you eat pussy or is it against your religion?”

“Yes, I do! And you just might want to make sure that your drywall guy's number is handy.”

“I want some of that ‘encore sex' you bragged about last night. By the way, I have my own version of encore sex. And whatever you do, don't you dare forget that bench.
” Click!

As he slowly inched across The World's Largest Parking Lot—the notorious 405 freeway—he thought back to their first long conversation about flowers. She said that she never painted them, but she enjoyed having them near, while she painted. She inadvertently told him that the scents and colors excited her imagination, and that golden angel's trumpet was her favorite, even though it was deadly poison. She mentioned that it was still in bloom. He stopped by a nursery in Westwood and bought her a premium hybrid that would reach her roof in two seasons and spill bushels of humongous, bright yellow blossoms, emitting their heavenly scent from dusk to dawn.

She also mentioned that her favorite food was Japanese—but just the cooked stuff. He stopped and got them a tray of her favorite dishes—eel roll, spider crab roll, miso soup, tempura veggies, teriyaki chicken rolls, and baked dyn-o-mite mussels on a half shell. He bought seasonal fruit from Farm Boy Produce Market—blueberries for her, cantaloupes for himself…tangelos for her, Fuji apples for himself. He didn't just listen…he heard.

By the time he pulled up into her driveway, he was excited as a child on the first day of first grade. Finally, he'd have a face to go with
that
voice. When he pulled up in front of her house, he thought about how much it looked like she described: a periwinkle and white two-story Victorian, surrounded by a tall
used brick fence. The melodic sound of her wind chimes and the compelling abstract design on her garage door screamed artist-in-residence.

The first thing he unloaded was the large paprika red, pit-fired pot of angel's trumpet. He lugged it up the steps to her porch with Mack, his new “mutt plus,” half-Jack terrier, half-?, noisily darting in and out of his legs. While Mack ricocheted from one end of the unfamiliar yard to the other, he discovered a well-fed but bitchy calico, Diva, resting in a damp bed of cool moss, and made the unwise choice to sniff her. She gave him a stiff warning across the tender salmon-colored nose. He yelped and raced back to Aden, busy positioning the cumbersome flower pot beside the tall white porch column. With Mack close underfoot, he unloaded his luggage and grocery bags from the trunk of his car. He headed back toward the front door and from the corner of his eye, he noticed the curtains in the French doors sway. She had been peeking. Partly to calm himself and partly as a joke, he called her on the phone. Businesswoman that she was, he knew she'd answer.

“Hey.” Her response was short but sweet and rich as fresh cream, and saturated with the smoky mezzo tone that had instantly captured his attention.

“Come down and let me take a good look at you, Ms. Peeker.”

She opened the white wooden screen and leaned against the frame of her door. She was wearing a long white chenille robe. As plush as it was, it was plain for him to see that she was thick and shaped like a beautiful milk chocolate coke bottle. Her belt was cinched tightly around her waist, and from her waist, her robe fell like a waterfall from her wide hips and plump ass. Underneath, she was naked, except for ultrasheer hot pink tangas.

He raced up her steps, out of the thick cool mist that was threatening again to become rain, and set down the bags of food and groceries on the kitchen floor.

“I brought Mack,” he apologized. “He found me a few weeks ago. He was too young to leave wandering, so I took him home until I find someone who'll care for him.”

Yanni wasn't a dog person, but Mack was the kind of warm, fat-bellied wiggler and licker that defied anything that resembled dislike. She picked him up and blotted the blood droplet off from his harsh encounter with Diva.

“Looks like rain. I'm not much for animals in the house, but Mack can stay on my service porch, if he promises not to cut into my bench time. By the way, where's my bench?” She pouted playfully.

“I'll get it on my next trip to the car.”

He had rehearsed a truckload of clever ways to break the ice, but when Yanni bent over to pick up a handful of junk mail, and her robe swung wide open at the top and the bottom, nothing clever came to mind. He stood transfixed, with his thick dick pulsing against his fly…begging for a long grinding hug.

“Oh, I'm sorry,” she teased, half-closing the top of her robe, to the protest of her soft round breasts.

“May I hold you?”

Yanni didn't say yes or no but didn't budge as he moved in closer. They were contrasting shades of brown. Neither of them was thin, but they were both fit, which seemed strange, being that they enjoyed such different food. He had worried that he wouldn't be tall enough for her, but she was only about five five, in her bejeweled flip-flops. He was five eight and a half…five nine (or ten), on a good day. She had very thick curly mahogany brown hair that hung to the middle of her small but well-shaped breasts. Thick clusters of it danced in the wind. After enjoying
their first physical contact, Aden's hands shot straight to the bejeweled side-ties that carved a perfect
T
across Yanni's wide curvaceous hips and down the split of her magnificent peach of an ass. Yanni went straight for his gorgeous dick. No need to beat around the bush, play nice girl, or pretend indifference—she was on fire and let him know.

“You're more beautiful than I ever imagined,” he said, sliding his meaty arms tightly around her waist. “Let me know if I do anything that makes you uncomfortable, Ms. Roberts.”

“So far, so good,” she whispered. “Maybe we should take all this inside,
fo some'm catch on fire.
I don't think the fire department would appreciate being called in the rain.” It was starting to come down in large drops.

“Movin' in?” she teased, wrinkling her nose and pointing at his two sizable pieces of luggage and his overnight case.

“Maybe…if things go as planned.”

“I've never lived with a man before, Aden.”

“From what you've told me, you never been thoroughly loved and fucked before either.” Those words sent blood rushing.

“Tell me, Mr. Laws, how does a thorough fucking go?”

“Show me where to put my things away and I'll be glad to show you.”

“You'll have to let go of me,” she laughed nervously.

“I don't think I really want to move,” he said, grabbing her even tighter. “Maybe, if you let me taste that sexy smile of yours, I could find the strength to let go.”

She lifted her head and offered him the sweetness of her open mouth. He teased her, brushing her lips with his soft moustache, and circled her lips with a barrage of steamy kisses. When their lips finally met, he painted her tongue with his, sucking gently, to the rhythm of his stealthy fingertips, which had found their way to her stiff clit and begun cracking her code. As difficult as
it was to end the firestorm between them, Aden eased to a stop. Both of them were breathing like wild animals after a flight-or-fight chase.

“Someone's done his homework.”

“I wanted to be teacher's pet,” he grinned.

She grabbed his small overnight case and led him upstairs to the master bedroom. She could barely walk, because of the profound swelling and pulse of pleasure still throbbing between her legs. She had braced herself to be able to accept Aden—no matter what, but to her good fortune, he was not only as polite and smart in person as he was on the phone, he was good looking—her style of good looking: thick forearms, wide meaty shoulders, medium height and a nice hard chunky dick. He was neat and well groomed but didn't give her the impression that they would engage in a daily competition for mirror space. His eyes were dark and tender, but he was quite manly.

He wasn't a flawless early thirties male model from an exclusive men's magazine, but he had nice white teeth, fresh breath, clean pressed clothes that fit and nice shoes. Nothing too faddish or conservative, he was right in stylish center. She was drawn to his small clear black shining eyes. He had a beautiful broad nose and fleshy well-shaped lips. She had imagined him to be a lighter, lankier, more disheveled, Afro-nerd type, mainly because he was so into technology and had such a strong command of business English. As she let her eyes wander up and down his fine frame, all she could think was that she had won the wrong number lotto. She had imagined him being taller, from the depth and strength of his voice, but was in no way disappointed. Things were off to a fiery start. She kept inventing ways to take peeks at him, as she moved about, showing him where to put his things.