Tears of joy over the best fuck ever put me to sleep last night. The next morning, one of Victor’s black button up floats down to my knees as I interlink each silk button. The feel of the linen against my skin is so ultra-comfortable, premium attire, but not as soothing as Victor’s touch.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask if he has another color; black embodies my father’s roses only. Other than that, the color puts me in a dreary state. Yet Victor seems to only wear black. Then I’m considering, where does he live? If he’s on extended stay at the Bulgari, starts at 2 grand per night per Aliyah, then I know this fortress on top of the building is nowhere near as cheap.
What’s his phone number? Where does he live, since surely nobody can afford to stay here too long?
“You have questions,” he says or maybe even asks. With Victor, it’s always a command, but so far this morning he has been quiet after our shower. He observes me putting on the Chloe lotion that was so silky and sweet against my body.
“Kind of,” I begin, but the look in his eyes tells me to shoot. “How long are you staying in New York, Dr. Finch?”
“Not sure.”
“Well you strike me as the type who is always certain. Especially after last night.” I blush as my body begins to feel the ripples of pleasure, even though he hasn’t given the answer that I want. I already, selfishly want to claim the dick for life. Yet if he goes, it’ll be back to the yellow-polka-dot grungy pajama set for a few weeks, tops. Who am I kidding, with sex like that I’ll be in mourning for a year! “Where do you come from?”
“I came from India.” He leans against the glossy gray bedroom wall, as if waiting to satisfy all my questions. And I don’t want a simple reply. I want depth.
“Oh. Is that where you were raised?” Now, I’m instantly interested. Victor has this flair about him, a uniqueness that captured chicks’ attentions all around. The thing that made me go on a date with such a self-centered man was the fact that he has this air that reminds me of Harlem. So diverse, as if he’s traveled the world.
“No. That’s just the last place I just came here from, Lux.” He waves a hand, simple as that.
“Born?” I begin to be as snippy as he is with the conversation. Last night, he learned every inch of my body and I have been forthcoming with myself. Why is he so guarded?
“Arli … London.”
My lips tense, as I ask, “Raised?”
“Everywhere you could imagine.”
“Name some places,” I speak through gritted teeth. Finding that a simple few letter words in a conversation are starting to grow on me. Especially if he thinks my questions only warrants a careless response.
Victor gives a soft chuckle that does nothing short of make me want to kiss his taut abs and then his dick.
“Luxury, where were you born and raised?”
“Born in the Bronx, I’m the only child as you are aware, but I grew up to Destiny’s Child and Usher. I’d go into my shyness from elementary school to high school if it provided a model of how intellectuals communicate–but that time was rather embarrassing for me, so I won’t. Went to NYU, tried that.” I chuckle for a second and catch my second wind, to continue on. “And I may have held every major available before giving up. Victor, see how easy it is to speak?”
Even though Vic doesn’t reply, it’s clear I have his attention. I end up telling him about Arnold and the botched proposal. Just because Victor and I have been so intimate in bed, maybe he needs to learn how that connection travels outside. I end the story with, “So I was finding out that Arnold was interested in Tiffany when I found a 1-carat diamond ring in his pocket. We were having one of those lazy days, me drawing–because I had been an art major at that time, and him studying with his head in a book.”
“Wow,” Victor says when I tell him how Arnold was picking up his NYU hoodie to go home that evening and the ring fell out.
“You’re damn right. He confessed that the ring was for Tiffany, a girl who he had done a few class projects with. Can’t even believe, he wasn’t even going to tell me. To think, he ruined rainy days for me.”
“I’m sorry that you no longer see rainy days as a form of tranquility,” Victor says, rubbing my arm as I draw even closer.
God, I can’t get any closer to this man than I am now.
“No worries,” I shrug as if I hadn’t ever cried before. “Came home. Cried with my parents. Less than a month later, Dad and I moved to Harlem after… when,” my throat gets clogged as I think about Mom.
“Oh, little one,” he comforts. I’ve always hated being called, short or shawty. But for the first time, I can tell Victor is actually being tender, and it has nothing to do with the way he touches my body. So, I step to him. Victor’s big, strong arms wrap around me.
He lets me go, takes my hand and leads us to the plush living room couch.
“Tell me about her,” Victor says. I’ve done well with talking about my past without mentioning my mom. But Victor reads my mind. And he listens. The only thing is, he hasn't really told me anything about himself outside of what I found out online. And that was a compilation of credentials and even more degrees than my father. Either way, we end up talking on the living room couch. We chow on bowls of Honey Nut Cheerios, at my request. For the first time, it feels like I'm being heard. I must admit, he heard my body loud and clear last night, providing each and every one of my desires.
Today, maybe, I might just get too close to this man.
The memory of my mom is reserved for when I feel like divulging about her. But today, I tell him about the simplicity of being loved by two parents. Who would’ve ever known that two of the world’s most different people would get together? My father and all of his brains and my mother, she was so beautiful.
“I don't know anything about your father's freckles,” Victor says, “but my next mission is to lick each and every one of yours.”
I cuddle closer to him, still not believing that Victor is the only person, only human, that I’ve told all about my past. I start with the simple stuff, such as how my father would get frustrated with his newest invention.
“It would be kind of funny; you could hear obscenities, even outside our apartment in the Bronx. Rap music blaring, Italians and blacks cussing and fighting, and here goes Dad’s frustrated cussing right in the mix. If I were in the house, he would come out of the room and apologize after calming down. Then he would try to tell Mom and me. I’m telling you words that were longer than sentences, believing we would understand as he explained how this wasn’t working right or that failed.”
Victor nods and it feels like he’s visualizing the entire scenario.
“Dad won the Cardiologist Annual Guild when he was young. I guess that maybe he wanted to get back to that notoriety.” I shrug. “He never seemed satisfied with his work. But Mom would know a good day from a bad day, because I would come home from school and she would be baking something sweet. Then he put Greco Tech on the map. You probably know more about that than I do.”
He nods, knowing that I will go off on a tangent, and mention Dad’s work and not Mom.
But I sigh, and step into uncharted territories, by speaking about Mom. “So, Dad put all his time in that. Mondays like I told you before Mom would bring flowers to his job.”
“Black roses,” Victor says, again redirecting me back to the pain of the past. “Tell me more about you and your mom. How was your relationship?”
I get teary-eyed again even though I recall what Victor said the first day we met, that women use tears as a ploy. But there’s nothing I could ever want more than to see my mother again. I take it slow. “I had the best Mom. She would listen to me. She’d have that first aid kit already handy when my father took me on my first bike ride. Before something bad happened, she was already prepared. Sometimes Dad’s inventions would go left when he wanted it to go right. The brownies or cookies be ready whenever he would get frustrated over the inventions.” I tell Victor personal things, such as how we never went through the terrible teen stages where my mom and I couldn’t understand each other. Oh my goodness, I smile remember. “Saturday mornings, it was just us on a solo mission. Mommy would have a coupon challenge by cutting coupons from newspapers and magazines, then go shopping.”
I look at the smile on Victor’s face and wonder if he even understands what I am talking about. His car, his clothes, his choice of hotel stay while here makes me even wonder why I’m divulging such a ridiculous story. But just having him listen makes me feel my mother's presence, so I continue. “That’s as brainiac as my mom would become. We would tally up the different items that we bought. Whoever got the most bang for her buck didn’t have to cook dinner.”
“Who won?” he asks, kissing my forehead.
“Dang, you’re really going to ask that.” I smile at Victor. “Mostly my mom, Gina. If I hadn’t lost so much, I wouldn’t have ever known how to bake a cake and a box cake.”
He laughs with me at that.
“Lux, when was the last time you went coupon shopping?”
I shift around, leaning against him. “My mother, Gina has been gone for a little over a year, so just over a year, then.”
Next thing I know, we’re downloading coupon apps on our phones and doing our own challenge. Then we decide to go shopping. I will look him up and down. “And loser does what?” I ask.
Vic busts up laughing. “Am I to assume that you don't think I can cook?”
“Isn’t that what Alfred is for?” I joke.
“Who?”
“Batman’s homeboy,” I reply in my old BAPs–the movie–voice and then I say, “Oh, never mind, is that a British thing?”
“I didn’t have much of a childhood,” his smile wavers. Before I can ask Victor about that, he says, “I’m always up for a challenge. But this time it will be for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.”
My eyebrow arches.
“It’s Saturday. You're staying with me all weekend,” he makes this statement like a fact. I’m thrilled because Victor wants to be with me longer. I want to accompany him for a lifetime.
I reply with a grin, “Okay, buddy you are on!”
Victor is a sore loser at the coupon bet. I even offer to help him cook dinner. Don’t ask where my brain is. It’s easy to say that I must have gotten Gina’s brains instead of my dad’s, but she would’ve been ashamed at how the weekend went. We end up cooking together. Sex and food are our only companions. Victor proves to be worthy of 5-star chef quality with Italian and English food, while he grubs on my Mexican food and southern cuisine that Mom taught me to cook. Then he grubs on the sweet nectar in between my thighs as my bare-ass rests on the cold marble countertop in the Bulgari suite.
We stay in this state for 72 hours. Each time, he fucks me as if it would be my last. I lose more of myself to him. So good, so wanton, so hard. Victor commands my body. He drains me of everything, and then drains me some more. He feeds me. He kisses me all over and fucks me until I quiver, shake, and give in. Victor cuddles me in the morning light and starts all over again. So, while in a haze of oxytocin, adrenaline, and pheromones, I fall in love. There is no trepidation or uncertainty about future rejection because I am just that stupid. Victor has the type of love that makes me dumb.
All the while, at the base of my brain, this mystery and tension adds a tiny dose of fear.