“Why are you smiling?” Ebony laughs, but it’s obvious she doesn’t get it.
She starts to catch on, though, when I kiss along her collarbone, gliding her dress strap away and sucking on the swells of her small, round breasts. Her tiny whimpers swirl into the moist air as I drag her nipple into my mouth, teasing it with my tongue.
“You asked me to kiss you already…” I dip my hand into the dress slit, finding her slick and ready.Jesus, so wet.As I slip two digits inside, lengthening each stroke until she syncs to my rhythm, I whisper softly, “What do you think? Are my fingers magical enough?”
She moans, the picture of uninhibited perfection.
Gliding in a third finger, I quicken the pace, scattering more kisses between her breasts until she shivers and convulses around me tightly.
As I remove my hand, I lower to my knees to kiss her sweet, hot pussy. She absolutely gets what I’m smiling about now. When I open my mouth over her soft, sensitive flesh, darting my tongue in deep, long strokes, laving and lapping at her five-star meal, I have no doubt she’s tuned in to the fact that this, right now, prioritizing her pleasure—that’s only the teaser of the man I want to be for her. And as an orgasm vibrates through her, she gasps for air, writhing against my hand flattened over her stomach to hold her upright. I’m certain we’re, line for line, on the same page about exploring this unwavering flame between us.
When I stand, she collapses into me.
“What about you?” she asks, her voice soft. “Let me take care of you.” She breathes the words like they’re a promise.
I have to admit, looking at her breathless and spent does wonders for my ego. But as perfect as she is, as perfect as this oasis waterfall is, she said it’s been over a year. The last time she had sex, she was still married.
If we take this further—whenwe take this further—it won’t be on a whim in a dark alley. She means too much to me.
“Baby, I’m satisfied when you are,” I say, then brush a chaste kiss over her lips. “We’d better get going, though. We definitely don’t want me to be late.”
Half an hour later, I’m sitting in my car outside my parents’ house, changing into my gym shirt and scrolling through Ebony’s latest PopShot videos, still trying to shake off my smile. Part of me wants to skip this dinner and call Ebony to see if she wants company, to pick up where we left off. The other part, though, still can’t believe what just happened behind that hotel.
It feels too raw.
After cutting the engine, I exit the car and head up the path to the front door. I bypass the doorbell, instead playing a drum solo on the wooden panels with my palms until the door swings open.
Mom is standing on the other side, her dark hair lined with grays and pulled back into a loose bun. She’s wearing a soft, earth-toned blouse and black pants. Nothing too flashy, but everything about her, the way she carries herself, has always shown class and a quiet elegance.
“Ooh, Lord, anyone would think you were raised by heathens.” She wipes her hands on a dishcloth, fixing me with a chastising look that quickly morphs into a soft smile. “Now, give me some sugar, then get on in here and wash your hands before your daddy eats up all the gumbo.” She shakes her head, giggling.
Yes, washing my hands would be awesome.
“Yes, ma’am!” I do as I’m told, planting a big, hard kiss on her soft, velvety cheek, skipping the usual bear hug. I’m at the kitchen sink not even twenty seconds before she sidles up beside me while I’m lathering my hands.
She fixes me with herMama knowsstare, taking stock of my clothes, shoes, posture, everything.
“Yes?” I chuckle.
“No, I’m just looking. Seems someone’s in a good mood…” she says, clearly fishing.
But I’m wise to her tactics. “Always, when I get to catch up with my folks and eat some good food.” I drag in a deep inhale, savoring the robust, smoky scent of her famous—in our house—chicken and andouille sausage gumbo simmering on the stovetop.
Her lips purse, tellingly. “Mm-hmm. Dare I ask whosheis?”
“She?” I scrunch up my face, cutting off the faucet and drying my hands on the dishtowel draped over the cabinet door. I’m borderline offended she can read me so easily. “Oh, you must be referring to Carlotta Ellswood Bridges, mother of the century and my own personal hero. I don’t have the faintest idea who else you could be talking about, ma’am.”
“Oh, hush.” Mom waves me off, but a glimmer of determination swirls in her steely, dark eyes.
Before she can dig any deeper, with my fresh hands, I finally sweep her up into that bear hug, spinning her around.
She fusses, but the smile on her face is a mile wide when I set her back down. “You and Daddy come now and make your bowls so I can have a good sit-down and hear what’s been going on with my handsome son.”
I let out a sharp laugh. “You mean pry.”
Dad, who’s been “taste-testing” straight from the pot, barely manages to hand me a bowl with his broad shoulders shaking with laughter.
“Yeah, laugh it up, old man.” I grab the wooden spoon, stirring the rich, flavorful roux loaded with big chunks of meat, okra, bright green bell peppers, onions, and celery. “We both know she’ll turn on you in a second.”
