He leaned his head leftward, peering at me through a lustful haze. I abandoned his gaze in search of his rigidness. It greeted me behind the zipper of his slacks.
He ran a hand over his head. Decisions were being made internally. The struggle was loud. Obvious. Comical.
At once, Ishmael took me by the hand. He led me toward the front door. I was whisked into the night breeze. It swept across my skin, cooling my temperature.
“Lock the door, Royce.”
He stood behind me, observing as I pressed the lock button on the keypad. A Phantom awaited us. Black in color. It blended well with the night. Beside it was an unfamiliar face. I turned to Ishmael for an explanation. He leaned over, mouth near my ear.
“Gibson. Our driver for the night.”
I stepped forward, lowering my body onto the seat.
“Good evening, ma’am.”
“Good evening.”
I settled in. Ishmael did the same. The door closed behind us. Words tumbled from my lips.
“Are you going to tell me where we’re headed? And why we need a driver?”
“To dinner. One hosted by one of my largest donors.”
“And the driver?”
“I don’t plan on making it back home before I get my hands on you, my baby.”
His eyes found me as he revealed his truth.
“Ishm–”
“I’ve dreamt of your lips wrapped around my dick enough times to know what the roof of your mouth feels like against my head. Trust me, my baby, we’re not making it home before my dick is down your throat.”
His audacity was tantalizing. I straightened my posture, pushing my shoulders backward.
“A wise woman once told me… later isn’t promised. Put the dick in your mouth now.”
Roulette Childers was the wise woman.
Ishmael’s chest imploded.
“We have dinner, Royce. Stop while you’re ahead.”
His warning never reached me.
“Youhave dinner. I’m just a guest.”
“I want you snotty nosed and crying, love. That pretty face of makeup won’t survive. Wai–”
In front of Ishmael, I fell onto my knees. His objection was shortened. So was our conversation.
We shared the same dream. I was ready for us to share the same reality.
I unbuckled his belt. Curiosity lifted his eyebrows. I peeled the fabric from around the button of his slacks. Quietly, he watched as I attempted to undress him. I patted his right leg, urging him to lift up.
“Has your head always been this hard?” Ishmael questioned.
He lifted. I pulled downward. I didn’t mind ruining my makeup. There was more in my bag. His slacks, however, there weren’t a second pair of those in my bag. They had to come down.
