You Make Me Wanna Page 2

  But is this the life I’d envisioned for myself? Was my life heading down the path I was destined for? Sure, I had changed. I had grown and I was happy, yet a part of me yearned for the missing link. Deep inside I knew I wanted to love again. But how?

  I sighed and rolled over, and began small strokes across the nape of Angie’s neck, admiring the smooth lining against her tiny black curls. She roused slowly and reached for my fingers, bringing them to her mouth. She kissed and nibbled the tips of each, the heat of her breath warming them instantly.

  With my fingers still warm and moist, I lowered my left hand and lifted her T-shirt, and next her sports bra. I grabbed hold of one of her breasts and squeezed gently, then a bit more aggressively. I pinched her stiffened nipple between two fingers, and she moaned. She liked it this way.

  Though Angie’s demeanor was softhearted and nurturing, her sex was bold and unrestrained. With her, I let my wildest side free. In her bedroom, or whatever room we ended up in, we each shed our professional exteriors and revealed the raw, brash side of ourselves. Rarely was there a moment of silence; we talked to each other the entire time, pornographic words flying about the room nonstop.

  “Fuck me harder, Angie,” I told her, my fingers disappearing in and out of my heated body.

  Fucking me from behind with her strap-on, one of her hands at my waist, the other holding a fistful of my hair, she said, “Your pussy is so good.”

  “You like that shit, don’t you?” I lifted my ass and pressed into her hips.

  “Come for me, baby,” she said, going deeper.

  This morning was no exception. I lowered my hand once more and reached inside Angie’s boxers and began a firm rub against her clit with my middle finger. One of the biggest turn-ons about her was, even though she was a “soft stud,” she knew she was a woman and let me fuck her the same way she fucked me.

  “Make me come, Kyla,” she commanded.

  Within minutes my finger was slippery wet, yet I remained focused on Angie’s now bulging clit, rocking it back and forth with my finger.

  “Ah, that’s the shit right there.” She groaned, just before her body lifted slightly off the bed and her body trembled as she came.

  Angie wasted no time, rising up and turning me onto my backside. My naked body was exposed as she stared at me, her eyes poring over my toast-colored skin. She leaned forward and devoured each of my breasts, one at a time, then together, darting her tongue from nipple to nipple. She used her teeth against my skin, sending minor shots of pleasurable pain through me.

  I felt a small rush escape my body. I spread my legs, and she placed her first and second fingers inside me, rapidly moving them in and out, using her third and fourth fingers to pound my clit with each entry. My body rocked against the strength and rhythm of her motion.

  As the tightness in my belly increased and the spasms became more frequent, I had just one request of her. “Fuck me harder, Angie,” I said.

  And she did.

  CHAPTER 2

  Heaven on Earth

  Kyla, could you come here for a moment please?” Gary, the divisional manager and my boss requested when I finally answered my phone after ignoring it three times.

  It wasn’t that I was intentionally neglecting the phone, but it hardly seemed worth the search-and-rescue effort, considering it was hidden underneath stacks of inventory files and shipping orders. “No problem, Gary,” I said. “I’ll be there in a second.”

  I pushed aside the catalog of the latest women’s trendsetting fashions and picked up the folder detailing October’s financial plan. Gary was surely calling me in for it, since I had yet to report the numbers to him. Well, at least I could scratch it off my to-do list now.

  Gary’s office fell at the end of what seemed an endless hallway. One would think I worked for an upscale magazine, with the decorative walls of models sporting the season’s most recent must-have shoe, or extravagant evening gown by the most sought-after designers. Through the glass windows I could see him tapping his pen against his palm to the beat of whatever pop CD was playing in the compact disc player on the desk.

  At forty-two years old and married with three children, Gary’s life revolved around three things: his family, his job, and the pop phenomenon. At least he had his priorities in the right order. His particular fascination was geared toward the manufactured teen delights of Christina Aguilera, Mandy Moore, and his ultimate fantasy girl, Britney Spears. However, on occasion I’d noticed an *NSYNC, 98 Degrees, and even New Kids on the Block CDs stacked next to the player. Today he was treating his ears to the tunes of Hilary Duff, one of the latest blondes to hit the scene.

  “Here you go, Gary,” I said, handing him the manila folder.

  Dressed casually in a short-sleeve plaid top of reds, blues, yellows, and greens only he could pull off stylishly, Gary lazily flipped through the papers briefly and then set the folder atop his pile of financial plans from all of the other buyers in the women’s department. He hummed and closed his eyes, his light eyelids a stunning contrast against his reddened, tanned skin. I assumed Gary sat imagining he was singing on stage right along with Hilary.

  “So you’re a Hilary Duff fan now, Gary?”

  He smiled broadly without even a hint of embarrassment. “Yes, she’s quite a talented little lady.” He picked up the CD cover and admired her innocent, youthful photo. “I hear she may be coming to town soon, so I’m keeping my ears open for the concert announcement. Missy would love to go.”

  Missy was Gary’s 18-year-old soon-to-be high school graduate. Ever since the Spice Girls domination in the late ’90s, Missy had been Gary’s excuse to wait hours in line to obtain the best seats for the teeny-bopper concerts he adored so much. Luckily, the fascination seemed hereditary, for Missy appeared twice as excited as he did when a pop sensation announced their future arrival date to Atlanta.

  “Sit down, Kyla. Talk to me.” Gary motioned toward the chair in front of his desk.

  I anticipated his invitation and had already mentally prepared for a minimum fifteen minutes of chitchat.

  Gary unashamedly tried to get me to divulge details about my personal life to satisfy his raging imagination. His hands clasped together, index fingers touching, his elbows resting on his desk, inquisition-style, he dove right into it. “What’d you do last night?”

  Shortly after I had joined his team, I found myself leery of Gary’s sudden interest in my personal life.

  He’d noticed my reluctance and attempted to ease my hesitation with soothing words. “Kyla, I hope you don’t feel I’m being too forward by wanting to get to know you better,” he’d said that day in his office. “You’ve been working with us for a couple of months now, and you’ve made yourself comfortable and already established yourself as a strong asset to our store. It’s my nature to maintain an open-door policy with my people, and I want you to feel relaxed enough to talk to me about anything, anything that’s on your mind, whenever you like.”

  At that time I knew neither of two things: one, he meant that he wanted me to be relaxed enough so he could talk to me about anything, anytime. And, two, he had already spoken to my co-worker, Megan, who had heard from a friend of a friend that I was out at a club cuddled up with Dana, my companion that particular evening. Word got back to Megan, who quickly shared the unbelievable gossip about the new girl. It didn’t take long for the news to travel down the hall to Gary’s office.

  “Well, Gary,” I started, “last night David and I rented a couple of movies and shared a bottle of wine.”

  A hint of disappointment shadowed his face.

  It seemed he expected a detailed narration of a romantic evening spent gazing into the eyes of my latest interest, a young woman by the name of Tiffany, who I’d literally bumped into as I ran into the bank recently, trying to catch the security guard before he turned the lock. Tiffany, obviously on the same mission, unbeknownst to me, was trailing two feet behind my heels when I suddenly stopped in my tracks and turned back toward my
car, realizing the check I needed was sitting inside my console, and she and I collided forehead to forehead, chest to chest, and knees to knees.

  After a temporary moment of painful blindness, my eyes focused on a lovely woman dressed in a navy business suit, looking as if she might black out as a result of our impact. I reached and held her elbow to steady her wavering stance.

  “I’m okay,” she said, finally opening her chocolate brown eyes.

  “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know someone was behind me.”

  “That’s all right.” Then her eyes deepened in thought. “Hey, you look familiar. I’ve seen you somewhere.”

  I studied her face for recognition but found none.

  “Ahhh, yes,” she said, a smile creeping at the corners of her mouth. “Yes, you shared a dance with a friend of mine at the Velvet Room one night. Her name is Nicole,” she stated, waiting for me to respond.

  Now, the only reason I remembered Nicole was because she was a looming barracuda of a woman who asked me to dance about ten times in a two-hour time span. I figured the best solution was to surrender to one song and get it over with. When the song thankfully ended (it just had to be the extended version of Prince’s “Erotic City”), I shook her hand firmly and headed back to my table, where David was near tears in stifled laughter.

  “Sure, I remember her. So she’s a friend of yours?” I asked hesitantly, afraid she might try to reconnect me with the Amazon.

  “We hang out from time to time, but that’s it. By the way, I’m Tiffany.” She held out her hand.

  “Kyla,” I said, taking hold of her soft fingers.

  “So,” she said, smiling shyly, “is there any chance I can have the next dance?”

  And that’s how my relationship with Tiffany began. In between Angie and a select few, she’d been sucking up the majority of my spare time since our collision two months ago.

  No longer thrilled by my presence and not wanting to listen to a boring Kyla and David story, Gary suddenly found the urgent need to begin reviewing the financial report he’d tossed aside five minutes before. He picked up a folder and ran his finger down the page, focused on the numbers. “Hmmm,” he hummed, seemingly concerned.

  “I’ll let you get to work, Gary, okay.” I stood to leave.

  “Yeah, sure, sure.” He waved his hand, too fixated on the report to look in my direction.

  A few minutes later after I left the women’s restroom and walked for a smoke break, I saw Gary casually sitting atop Nancy’s desk, another senior buyer, chatting animatedly. Perhaps I would have a more exciting story for him another day.

  When I got back to my desk, I punched speed dial 7 and called Nakia, the manager of the Misses Better Sportswear department, for which I was the buyer. Nakia and I took the fast road to friendship shortly after I joined the store. Nakia was a rarity in Atlanta, meaning, she was actually a native. Born and raised in Decatur, Georgia, she was witness to the emergence of Atlanta as a major city in the world.

  We became friends just after I started, and our relationship strengthened when I was quickly promoted from assistant buyer to buyer only five months after my initial hire. The other assistant buyers weren’t the only ones surprised by the move. Although grateful and appreciative, I was taken aback as well. The can-you-believe-she-got-promoted stares lasted about a month, until I proved I was capable and competent enough to handle the job.

  Nakia’s support and constant don’t-worry-about-what-they-say comments assisted my transition into my new title.

  She would linger hours after her shift ended, chatting with me as I attempted to complete the shitload of tasks upon my desk. Apparently digging through shit was my niche, since it was only nine months later that I was again promoted to senior buyer.

  My sexuality didn’t bother Nakia, and it was never a topic we had to tiptoe over from the beginning. The news hit the sales floor even before Gary’s office, yet Nakia’s attitude didn’t change, and she never once questioned my chosen lifestyle. I could talk to her about anyone I was involved with, and she listened and offered advice as if she were talking to a straight woman. She empathized with what I had gone through, and it felt good to form a new friendship with a woman since my departure from home. I was doubtful that anyone could ever fill the shoes of Tori and Vanessa, but in Nakia I knew I’d found a true friend.

  She was two years older than me, about two inches taller, and two sizes larger. She wasn’t a woman a person could walk past with a glance. Her mere presence demanded your attention. Her frame, although tall and built, was a voluptuously shaped size twelve. Even though she had short, curly hair managed with just moisturizer and a brush, a feminine aura surrounded her. Sleek-fitted skirts and daring low-cut blouses filled her wardrobe, and in three-inch heels she towered over me like a mother to a child. I had grown accustomed to her delicate fragrance of musk that lightly awakened one’s senses when she walked by.

  “What time for lunch today?” I asked when she finally picked up her line.

  “Oh, Kyla, damn! I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t make it today. Fred Jr. needs new shoes for basketball, and I promised to take him over lunch. I’m sorry, girl.”

  Fred Jr. was Nakia’s ex-husband’s son whom Nakia refused to divorce, even after she did his father. Although Fred Sr. and his first wife, the mother of Fred Jr., shared joint custody, Nakia, with little protest from either parent, spent entire weekends with Fred Jr. She attended his sports games, celebratory dinner outings, and spent occasional holidays with him as well. In the event she remarried, Nakia would have happily had children of her own, but firmly vowed that Fred Jr. was in her life to stay.

  “All right, Kia, but you owe me one,” I said.

  Nakia laughed lightly. Thank goodness. For her laugh was just as large as her presence. If she had belted out her usual roar, a painfully loud sound that ranged anywhere from a dog’s bark to a rooster’s cuckoo, I might have heard her from my office two floors above. I tried to avoid comedy movie outings with Nakia, and on those unusual days when I was feeling especially brave, I attempted to make sure we attended the first showing of the day in which there would be the least amount of people that asked for their money back because some loud-mouthed lady in the audience prevented them from actually hearing the movie. Even though I jumped as if a fire alarm had gone off the first time I heard Nakia belt out a laugh, I easily adjusted and had grown to love this unique trait of hers.

  “Okay, I’m going to call David and see if he’s free for lunch then. Stop up before you leave tonight?” I asked her.

  “Yep,” she said and hung up.

  I leaned back in my chair after pressing speed dial 1, which was David’s cell phone. He answered out of breath.

  “What’s the matter, David?”

  “Nothing, girl, just playing hide and seek with MJ.”

  “Oh, so I take it you’re not free for lunch then,” I said, a tad disappointed. Even though David and I shared an apartment together, he spent the majority of his time at his boyfriend Marlon’s house, MJ’s father.

  “Well, baby, you can come over here. I was just about to make me and MJ some tacos.”

  Working such long days allowed me the luxury of extending my lunch as long as I wanted. So long as the work got done, Gary never hounded me down, even if I was gone two hours at a time. I looked at my watch. It was 11:45. “I’ll be there in an hour,” I told David.

  “See you then, darling,” he said, and went back to kidding with MJ before the phone clicked.

  Just two trips, one to interview with the department store, and the next to apartment-hunt, preceded my and David’s venture down South. Our three-day weekend spent prowling for an apartment proved well worth the sore feet and shin splints, because we lucked upon a beautiful mid-rise community in Midtown. Our $1,300 monthly rent was easily affordable between two, and allowed us the additional luxury of furnishing our home with the best quality furniture the rest of our paychecks could buy.

  The fenced-in dwelling re
sembled a gated community, with trees lined at the courtyard entrance. An Olympic-size swimming pool decorated the back of our building, which had separate entrances either back to the apartments or to the fitness center, nail salon, and dry cleaners on the first level. As I dashed out to work each morning, I often stopped for a cup of sliced cantaloupe or small bag of grapes at the minimart on the first floor before strutting over for my morning coffee pick-me-up.

  Marlon’s apartment was nearby, on the opposite side of Piedmont Park. It was Piedmont Park that brought David and Marlon together. While I choose to hit the snooze button every seven minutes, three times every morning, David opted for crack-of-dawn walks through the park for what he considered his meditation time. The touch of moist morning dew upon his face, the songs of birds in the trees above him, and a hint of light as the sun peeked above the horizon was what drew him to the park each morning.

  About a year ago, David returned from his morning walk and raced into my bedroom to tell me about the beautiful man he had just encountered. After veering from his usual course, David locked eyes with a gentleman in his mid-forties with a light salt-and-pepper beard covering his brown skin. A brief nod and hello from this stranger left him breathless and eagerly anticipating seeing this man the following day.

  Strolling down the same path, David came across his knight again, only, this time, he smiled broadly and spoke first. “Good morning,” he said.

  The runner slowed his pace and jogged in place, while eyeing David. “Care to join me?” the stranger asked.

  David, having prayed all night long for this response, was geared up for his run in tennis shoes, shorts, a T-shirt and headband. “Of course,” he answered, taking off next to his partner.

  And they’ve been running mates ever since.

  Marlon and I shared an instant connection because we both had spent the majority of our individual lives in heterosexual relationships. It was only five years prior to meeting David that Marlon admitted his true sexual identity to his now former wife. Marlon was for twenty-plus years a brother on the “down low.”