The cocoa-colored silk shirt lays over his firm chest softly. The two top buttons are undone. He knows that drives me wild. He’s fucking with me and I like it. The smell of his cologne penetrates all my senses and as I inhale his pheromones, my pussy gushes and releases in anticipation of him. A sticky wetness announces its presence.
“Still hungry?” he asks as he places a spoon of white chocolate into my mouth, dangling the spoon around my lips, making me smile as I try to capture it.
“Let me see your tongue,” he commands.
I obey.
As my tongue parts my lips once more, I reach for what he has to offer. As I place the pudding on the tip of my tongue, the sweet sensation arouses my senses. I lick my lips, wanting more.
“Lick it slowly,” he tells me.
Once again, I obey.
“Good girl. You like the way it tastes, don’t you?” His eyes watch my lips with envy.
“I do.”
“More where that came from.” Lust lingers in the air as he licks the spoon behind me, showing a bit of his skill.
I want to fuck the shit out of him.
“I know.”
I smile. Missing the smell of his day’s work. The smell of his erection then eventual release.
“So, why did you marry her?”
HIM . . .
In a seductive upsweep, long curls of wavy jet black hair adorn her crown. There’s a whole lot I’d like her to do with those big, juicy lips of hers—namely, use them to meet and greet every inch of my body. Thoughts of the warmth of her mouth around my dick make me slightly hard. The discomfort is inviting.
Damn, I want her in the worst way.
I keep reminding myself every ten minutes or so that I’m not here to kiss those pretty, luscious, crimson-stained lips; and that reminder has me going crazy inside. Unapologetically, she’s built. Cornbread fed, thick, like she grew up eating shrimp and grits. Truth be told, I have no business being here: dim lights, candles all around, close to midnight, in the corner of a restaurant that has been our place of reconnection over the years. In a strange way, it is home—our own private, secluded place in the universe where she is mine and I am hers, alone. Our home, I think, our place of refuge where everything that is so wrong about our love affair is so unequivocally right.
But I have every damn right to be here with my woman, my lady, my heart, my life, the love of my life . . . but she’s not my wife.
Sitting alluringly, she crosses one long, curvaceous leg over the other and softly feathers a loose curl from her brow.
With the boldness of a cobra, I believe, in my world full of fantasies, that she is all mine and that during this lifetime, we just never got on the same page at the same time. We each somehow ended up on the opposite sides of the tracks.
I fucked up, and I know it. She moved on. I grew up. She was gone. I fell in love again. Newly married now. I’m happy. I love my wife.
But Tia is my soul mate.
She laughs when I use those words. But it’s the truth. Her heart sings the same song as mine. Our hearts beat to the tune of the same drum. Richly appealing to the senses and my mind, she is without a doubt the best lover I’ve ever had.
“I married her because you were already taken.” I smile as I lean in to watch those lips of hers go to work on this spoonful of white chocolate bread pudding.
“Right.”
A look of sarcasm comes over her face and the writing is once again on the wall.
“Well, you are, aren’t you?”
“What?”
“Taken, Tia.”