Put A Ring On It (5 page)

Her flesh began to tingle, and her nipples hardened, making imprints on her nightshirt. Heeding nature’s call, her hand worked its way to her panty crotch.

Bridezillas
droned in the background as Vangie’s experienced fingers rubbed the strip of fabric between her thighs, making her sex moisten.

Hastening her caresses, a desperate moan escaped her throat. She had to slow down and adhere to the ritual that prolonged her self-pleasuring experience. Oh, fuck that! She’d had a long, rough day and was desperate for release.

Kicking off her panties, she spread her legs, granting Mr. Right the kind of access he required. She writhed impatiently as she imagined him taking his time, his eyes riveted on the sight of her pussy that dripped and throbbed with nearly whorish desire.

Eat this pussy!
she demanded in her mind, as her middle finger sliced through juices that were thickened with lust. She imagined him separating her pussy lips. With great compassion, Mr. Right attempted to calm her by blowing on the flames that raged.

Eat it, baby,
she coaxed, using a gentler tone.

His lips were achingly close. She arched her body, offering a swollen clit to imaginary lips. But he ignored her inflamed flesh, and began nibbling on her pussy lips, nipping at one and then the other. “Oh!” she uttered, as she pretended that her finger was his tongue, flicking against her pink pussy lining.

Her finger inched upward, inciting her hips to dance to an inner rhythm. She gasped as she envisioned his tongue connecting with her sensitive clit. Her finger moved circularly around her pleasure hub, making it slick and stiff. Craving sexual relief, her body tensed. Her breathing became ragged. The shorter, index finger teamed with the longer one. Working in tandem, her fingers trapped the swollen flesh, squeezing it in just the right way, extracting an outpouring of honeyed nectar from her core, and unrestrained cries of pleasure.

“Oh, God! Ahhh!” An orgasm hit with the force of a lightning bolt. Ecstasy tore through her body, but her fingers kept a tight grip. Over and over, surges of electricity jolted her, as if Mr. Right had become a sadist, cruelly using his tongue like a stun gun.

The intensity of the orgasm subsided, and Vangie slowly became aware of her surroundings. She released a sigh of regret. The fantasy was over and she was back to reality. There was no fantasy man. No warm body to snuggle next to. And no husband anywhere on the horizon.

“A
toast to the man who will quench my country’s thirst for luxury vehicles,” said Talib Chitundu, raising his champagne flute.

With a halfhearted smile, Harlow raised her glass. It was too early in the morning for grinning and small talk. And drinking champagne for breakfast did not agree with her stomach. Last night, she’d had fallen asleep inside Drake’s arms, and was rocked to sleep by the gentle motion of the waves. Now, in the morning light, and in the company of a party of fools, the waves of the ocean were making her nauseous.

Harlow doubted if Talib or any of his guests had gotten any sleep at all. The people aboard The Water Nymph were still in party mode. Talib was obviously tipsy, making the second or third toast to his business venture with Drake. Everyone at the massive table indulged him, cheering and raising their flutes as if for the first time.

Throughout breakfast, the spoiled rich boy had been monopolizing the conversation, making one toast after another…toasting to everything under the sun. Harlow didn’t think she could stand to hear his slurred, heavily accented voice much longer.

Flanked by two blondes, Talib behaved lewdly, groping the breasts of one woman, while intermittently tongue-kissing the other. Neither blonde seemed to mind sharing Talib.
Money talks,
Harlow surmised disgusted. What she felt for Drake was not based on his bank account. If he lost every penny, she’d still love
and adore him. Being in the presence of these fake-ass people seemed to cheapen what she and Drake shared.

She nudged Drake with her elbow, signaling him to excuse them from this disgustingly decadent breakfast.

“A few more minutes,” Drake whispered.

“I’m ready to go,” she whispered back.

“Soon,” Drake placated.

The ship would be coming ashore in an hour or so. She preferred to spend that time on their private balcony. The blue skies and ocean backdrop formed a perfect spot for Drake to ask for her hand in marriage.

“I have to tell you a funny joke,” Talib stated. All sidebar conversations ceased as the guests waited for the young billionaire to tell his joke.

Oh, God!
Harlow couldn’t take much more of the spoiled rich boy.

Talib’s joke went on endlessly, with no predictable punchline. Waiters emerged and began refreshing the champagne flutes.

I’ve had it! Drake can sit here if he wants to, but I’m not allowing this jerk to hold me captive at this table any longer.
Harlow stood. “I have to excuse myself, Talib. I’m feeling queasy. Seasick,” she explained.

“But today is a day of great celebration,” Talib said, sounding sad as though Harlow’s feigned illness was ruining his breakfast bash. “Don’t leave. I have a physician onboard. He can give you medication for sea sickness.”

“No, I don’t need medication. I just need to lie down for a while.”

As waiters busied themselves refilling the champagne flutes, Harlow noticed something glittery at the bottom of her flute.

A ring!
A sound of surprised delight escaped her lips.

“Feeling better?” Drake whispered with amusement in his tone.

“Much better.” She sat down and picked up the flute. Mesmerized, she stared at the diamond ring that was resting at the bottom of her glass.

“Is that a diamond in your glass?” the blonde on Talib’s right squealed.

“Did he propose to you?” the blonde on the host’s left inquired.

Harlow gazed curiously at Drake.

“Will you marry me, Harlow?” Drake’s voice was deep and serious.

She answered with a wide smile and several enthusiastic head nods.

“You’re supposed to get down on bended knee,” suggested another female member of Talib’s entourage.

“I’m good,” Drake said, laughing.

Too impatient to drink the champagne, Harlow began pouring out the bubbly into an empty glass. She retrieved the huge diamond ring, and held it in her palm. As she gazed at it, tears formed in her eyes.

Drake took the dripping ring from her hand and began wiping it with a cloth napkin.

“I love you, Harlow,” he told her, as he took her hand and slipped the ring on her finger.

Harlow gave a blissful sigh. Drake’s marriage proposal made up for everything. Erased her painful past, promising the happy ending that little girls dream of.

“Thank you, Drake,” she murmured.

The blondes rose from their positions next to Talib and rushed over to Harlow, fawning over her large diamond.

“That’s a hell of a rock,” said one blonde.

“Looks like four or five carats,” said the other.

“Six carats,” Drake informed.

Smiling, Harlow tilted her hand, admiring the way her diamond sparkled as it captured sunlight.

Abandoned by his dates, Talib looked confused and out of his element. He was accustomed to being the center of attention, not applauding the happiness of others. Talib frowned in disapproval, his dark eyes roving from Harlow’s bejeweled finger to Drake. “What are you doing, my man? I thought you were a player.”

“Nah, man. I’m out of the game. I’m about to be happily married.”

“Marriage is for suckers,” Talib said harshly, intentionally disrupting the harmony at the table.

Reacting to Talib’s anger, the blondes hurried back to their places at his side.

“A real man cannot be satisfied with only one woman.” Talib grabbed the hand of the blonde to his left and placed it on his crotch. “A virile man such as I, captures women with his manhood, not a promise of matrimony.”

Drake bristled at Talib’s derogatory remarks.

The air was so tense, Harlow felt concerned for her and Drake’s safety. “Can we go back to our cabin, celebrate in private?” she stammered.

The muscles at Drake’s temples throbbed furiously. He made a steeple with his fingers as he glared at Talib. “Tell me, Talib, do you make it a practice of doing business with suckers?”

“Honey, he’s drunk. That’s the liquor talking,” Harlow said, trying to dissuade Drake from getting into an altercation with their youthful host.

“Drunk mind, sober tongue.” Drake stood up. He jabbed a finger in the host’s direction. “You got a problem with me, man?”

“My problem is with bitchassness. I don’t like it.” In his accent, Talib pronounced the slur as
beech-ahs-ness.

“Who you calling a bitch ass?” Drake demanded. Frowning, he tugged on the front of his suit jacket. His legs separated as he assumed a confrontational stance.

Talib’s goons rushed forward. They surrounded Talib in a protective cluster, their weapons visibly jutting from their waist-bands.

Drake’s right-hand man, Alphonso, had been posted near the door. He now stepped forward, jaws tensed, quietly seething. His penetrating dark eyes were focused on Drake. Alphonso pulled his jacket to the side, revealing the shiny chrome butt of his gun.

Wearing a taunting grin, Talib stretched his arms out and embraced his two blonde playmates. “This is the life you’re giving up. You can have all this…like me.”

“I don’t like the plastic blow-up doll type. I like a real woman like the one right here beside me.” Drake glanced down at Harlow.

“Let’s go back to the cabin, Drake,” Harlow pleaded.

“Nah!” Drake brushed her off and returned his attention to Talib. “Man, you got to be crazy if you think I’m gonna sit back and let you disrespect my fiancée and me. Fuck this Water Nymph bullshit. I’m not impressed by this yacht. In fact, you can take this ship, all your little Barbie dolls,
and
the multi-million-dollar deal we just signed…you can take all of that shit and stick it all up your misogynistic, socially undeveloped, ignorant, Neanderthal ass.”

The insult to the host drew a collective gasp from the female guests and glares from the thugs who called themselves a security team. The staff of waiters stood frozen in place.

The head of the security was a fierce-looking, bald African. Reaching for his waistband, he glanced at Talib. “Say the word, boss, and that foolish American will be filled with lead. The sharks will have a good time feasting on his remains.”

“Yo, y’all muthafuckas ain’t the only ones strapped. I dare any
of you jungle bunnies to even think about pointing a weapon at Drake,” Alphonso asserted as he wrapped his hand around the chrome handle. “Go for it if you want to, but I guarantee you that I’m taking Mr. Chitundu out. That rich boy’s not gon’ look so appealing to the ladies with a third eye in the middle of his head.”

Looking petrified, Talib swallowed hard, his eyes locked on the door as though plotting to make a run for it.

Harlow was wild-eyed and frantic.
All of these men…Alphonso, Drake, and the Africans…they’re all acting like blood-thirsty barbarians and somebody is going to get hurt.
She appealed to Drake, grabbing his wrist. “Baby, this is ridiculous. Tell Alphonso to chill.”

Drake shook off Harlow’s grasping hand. “Yo, Talib. I know you’re accustomed to talking to your flunkies any way you want to. You’ve led a pampered life. But it took intelligence, street smarts, business sense, and a lot of hard work for me to reach my level of success. You’re sadly mistaken if you think I’m gonna sit back and allow you to talk trash and attack my manhood. Your people want bloodshed? Well, let me assure you, it’s going to be your blood that’s going to flow, man.” Drake spoke through clenched teeth. “Your blood’s going to rush like a fuckin’ river if you don’t apologize to me and my future wife.”

Harlow gasped. Had Drake lost his mind? Couldn’t he see that those bloodthirsty African henchmen were eager for an opportunity to open fire?

In an abrupt change of heart, Talib waved his hand like he was waving a white flag. “Let’s dispense with talk of guns and behave like civilized men. I apologize to you and Harlow. I didn’t intend to give the impression that I was stirring up violence. I thought we were having an intelligent debate. You know, a discussion about our cultural differences.” Suddenly sober, Talib’s words came out in a steady and coherent stream.

Talib made a gesture with his hand. His bodyguards stepped away from him, reluctantly leaving him open and vulnerable.

“No more talk of bloodshed,” Talib said. “Drake, my man. We’re doing big business together. You can’t back out on our deal.”

“I can and I just did. I don’t do business with disrespectful, young punks,” Drake stated.

“But my people are expecting a shipment of fleets carrying luxury vehicles. My father allowed me to negotiate this deal. He’ll be very disappointed if I don’t deliver.” Talib wiped sweat from his brow.

“Find another supplier,” Drake said.

“But we have a legally binding agreement.”

“Sue me!” Drake challenged.

The ship’s horn sounded. Through the window, Harlow could see the dock. The ship was coming to port.
Please, God, let us get off this ship alive and unharmed.

“Have a good day, gentlemen.” Drake reached for Harlow’s hand. “Come on, baby. We’re out of here.”

“Wait! We can renegotiate your terms,” Talib shouted desperately. “I’ll give you a much higher profit margin. Twenty percent! How does that sound?”

Drake paused. “Forty percent sounds better.”

“Deal!” Talib shouted happily. “My lawyer will amend the contract.”

“Yeah, whatever, man,” Drake mumbled as he guided Harlow away from the table.

“A toast to the happy couple,” the fickle host cheered. “May their union produce many sons!”

The clapping and cheering and tinkling of champagne flutes became distant sounds as Harlow, Drake, and Alphonso exited the ship’s dining room.

T
he house phone rang out a melody that was loud and annoying. Vangie squinted at the bedside clock.
Who the hell is calling me at six-damn-thirty on a Saturday morning?
Frowning, she peered at the caller ID. Private.
Hmph!
She pulled the covers over her head, deciding to ignore the private caller.