draw out his orgasm. My own body is still enjoying the aftermath of mine.
Sated, Damon lowers his body on top of mine, kissing me. His beautiful body is slick with sweat. We stay like that, kissing and holding each other, until our breathing calms down.
Finally, Damon eases back and looks down at me. He is smiling, that sweet smile. The kind that says he likes me.
Guilt washes over me. I can’t do it … can’t move forward in the hopes of having a relationship with Damon. I need a large, hard cock—the kind that can thrill me for hours.
“I’m glad you came back,” he says.
I grin. “So am I.”
“Are you doing anything this evening? We can go out, get a bite to eat.” He trails a finger around my nipple. “Come back here and go for round two.”
“I wish I could,” I lie. I don’t want to hurt him. He seems like a nice guy. He’s just … not enough. “But I’ve already got plans.”
“That’s okay. Tomorrow night?”
“Um,” I hedge. “Let’s talk later, okay?” I’m already getting up off the bed, gathering my clothes.
“You have time for a shower?”
“I may as well do that when I get home,” I tell him. And I hope—for his sake—that he doesn’t realize I am brushing him off.
I’ll give it a few days. Not answer his calls. Put him off gently. Hope that he gets the hint. And if he doesn’t, I’ll come up with a lame excuse for not being able to see him.
Because as much as I hoped that fucking Damon would help me forget Rugged, it’s made me remember him all the more.
Chapter three
Claudia
YOU CAN TELL YOURSELF OVER AND OVER AGAIN that you’re a strong black woman, a beautiful black woman, that the right man will eventually come along—but that doesn’t quite kill the ache in your soul. Oh, I know I don’t need to be married to be fulfilled. At least I know that logically. But the truth is, I never expected to be in my thirties and single.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying it’s the end of the world to be single past your thirtieth birthday. But I know—in my social circle—that people are talking behind my back, wondering what’s wrong with me that I haven’t tied the knot yet. An eligible Black-American Princess like myself—why is she still single?
Maybe people wouldn’t be talking if I hadn’t been engaged to Adam Hart, who turned out to be a sick son of a bitch. I can say that now because I’m over him. Adam has a twisted kinky side, one I ignored because I thought I was marrying the man of my dreams. One everyone in my social circle approved of.
Those same people who approved of Adam are judging me now. I know they are. At charity events, I get the sympathetic stare, the pat on the hand from older women and the assurance that one day I’ll find the perfect man.
It all makes me want to scream.
But as I stare at myself in the mirror, at my light brown skin and soft curls I perfectly styled—because, let’s face it, I’ve got too much time on my hands—I can’t help wondering if there’s something wrong with me. If there’s some reason a nice surgeon or business mogul wouldn’t want to marry me.
I can’t confess the feeling to my two best friends, Lishelle and Annelise. They would tell me that I’m out of my mind, that if the men I meet are too dumb to realize how fantastic I am then there’s something wrong with them. But I can’t stop the thought from popping into my head that the men in my social circle know all about my screwed-up relationship with Adam, and that’s why they don’t want to go anywhere near me.
And when they do want to go near me, it’s because they think that I’ll give it up easily. That I’ll do kinky things in bed with them. Things I regret doing with Adam.
I can’t believe how stupidly I behaved for the sake of keeping my man. And the idea that I may be judged for that forever is really hard to accept.
The rumor mill is alive and well in high society, let me tell you. That’s why I’ve pretty much given up on the idea of finding a man in Atlanta. In fact, I’m pretty much regretting the fact that I said yes to the blind date my brother-in-law’s sister set me up on.
But it’s a Tuesday evening, and I have nothing better to do, and who knows? Maybe Mark Wickham will be the one.
So I finish applying my makeup, get my clutch purse and head out the door. Within minutes, I am in my white BMW and driving toward midtown.
I really don’t want to be here. That’s what I think when I hand my keys to the valet. I am at New York Prime, the restaurant where I am supposed to meet Mark. This place has a reputation of serving the best-quality steaks in town, so if nothing else, I should get a decent meal.
I am still skeptical of this kind of date—the kind initiated by others—but Lishelle’s talk about how well her evening with Damon went has given me some hope.
And there’s no doubt that Mark is a good catch. He’s one of the Wickhams—a publishing dynasty in Georgia. Samson Wickham, Mark’s father, runs Wickham Publications, which publishes a series of monthly magazines for black women, black men, teens and entrepreneurs.
I have met Mark at events in the past, but we’ve never really chatted. I do know that he is attractive and, as far as my family is concerned, he’s from “good stock.”
I’m jaded, of course, which is why I told Mark that I would be driving my own car to the Buckhead restaurant. My dating life has most definitely sucked, but I’m always open to meeting the love of my life.
We’re due to meet at seven o’clock, and my personal rule is to never arrive early for a date. Ten minutes late is just about right. You can tell a lot about a man based on how he reacts to a woman being fashionably late.
I make my way into the steak house, and I sense eyes on me as I enter. It’s confirmation for me that I look good. And in my black sheath dress, with my hair in big, soft curls and my makeup done in the smoky, dramatic look that’s so popular these days, I’m looking especially hot. I suppose that even as wary as I’ve been of dating, I definitely miss sex and am open to seeing where the night might lead.
The hostess smiles warmly as I approach her. “I’m meeting someone,” I say before she can speak. “Mark Wick—”
I stop talking because I notice him. Rather, he has seen me and is now standing, waving to me from his table in the center of the restaurant beside three decorative palm trees.
“There he is,” I say cheerfully, and walk toward him.
Mark remains standing until I reach the table, which is beneath a beautiful, circular skylight. We greet by kissing cheeks. And then his eyes roam over me from head to toe, and I can tell that he likes what he sees.
“I’m sorry I’m late.” I offer him a sweet smile.
“No worries at all. I hope you don’t mind, I ordered
