The End Zone
“I just need to be alone for a few hours to get my shit together. Can I have that?” he asks.
“Of course.” But what my mama didn’t tell me is that we say of course, and we might even think it, when in reality, all we want to do is wrap our arms around our kids and take the pain away.
Later that night, I know Vaughn is out of the house because his car is not parked next to Vicious’. I slip into my shimmering pink nightgown, squirt hand cream on my hands and rub it nice and good all over my arms and neck. I walk over to the extra-large king-sized bed I share with Vicious. Our room is uniquely-designed, with dry-packed stone for walls and Egyptian cotton linen smoothed over a low, contemporary bed. Candle lights drop from the ceiling, and every wall is adorned with a different painting by me.
Painting one: A portrait of Vicious looking at an invisible camera.
Painting two: A portrait of me staring at a portrait of him with cherry blossoms in my hair.
Painting three: A glass frame containing all the notes we sent one another in high school. Before we found out we were in love with each other. When we simply hated how trapped we felt inside our own feelings.
Painting four: black canvas with drops of pink splashed onto it. Abstract. Wild. Intangible. Much like our feelings toward each another.
I notice the light pouring like a sunray from the slit under Vicious’ office door and sigh. I turn off the lights and tuck myself into bed, staring up at the ceiling.
I read somewhere that once you become a mother, you stop being your own story’s protagonist, and that changes the fabric of who you are, of how you perceive life. My son is far from perfect. He does, in fact, carry the same savagery of his father and a similar obsessive need to defy cultural expectations, like me. But I know deep down that his soul is gentle, just like his father’s. Just like mine.
I drift off to sleep, knowing Vicious will stay awake until Vaughn is home, before I’m awakened by a weird sensation. Actually, weird may not be the right word for what I’m feeling. It is delightful, hot, and it makes my core tighten and quiver with desperate need.
Vicious’ hot, wet tongue drags from the base of my sex up to my clit, where he halts, sucks it in with a groan, then bites softly before he releases it. I spread my legs wider on an instinct, a moan tumbling from my lips.
“Vaughn?” I ask in a haze, the fog of a building orgasm and sleep making me groggy and frantic at the same time. His hands dip and graze every curve of my body, and I writhe and arch underneath him, a willing subject to the king who owns my body.
“Still out. I called him earlier and he’s on his way. We got ten minutes before the little devil comes back.”
“And what are you planning to do in those ten minutes, Mr. Spencer?” I grin, dipping my fingers in his onyx-black hair, still thick and shiny. He looks up from between my legs and smirks, his lips wet and glossy with my need for him.
“Finish what we started this afternoon. On your knees for me, Mrs. Spencer.”
I’m about to stand up and do as I’m told when he pins me back to the bed with a light shove, flicking my clit with his thumb and using his other hand to prop my butt up.
“I think I’d like to torture you a little first.”
“We don’t have much time,” I say, but my heart is not in it. I’m giggling like a schoolgirl.
Vicious gives me one last don’t-mess-with-me look. “I’m not getting cockblocked by a sixteen-year-old emo kid, even if we share the same genetic code. Now, relax for me, Em.”
He eats me up like I’m a French dessert, and my body is sizzling, blooming, coming alive, each sensitive nerve a red, shiny button he pushes. I’m shaking all over and my knees turn to jelly when he stops his licking, sucking, and tongue-thrusting abruptly, looming over me now, his arms boxing me just above my shoulders. He stares down at me, and all I can see in his eyes is the man I was born to love.
There was a lost boy who used to live there, too. And I love him just as much.
I think Vicious is going to say something, after depriving me of a forceful orgasm, but all he does is smash his lips against mine. Our teeth clash and I let out a drunken laugh while he fumbles with his black sweatpants, pushing them down and entering me missionary style. He hoists one of my legs over his shoulder and sinks into me all at once.