played the same way. Or playing.
The bartender moved farther down the bar, serving a couple a pair of shot glasses filled with a blue liquor that looked to be the it–drink, Hpnotiq. Mesmerized by the intense color, he watched as they took the shots quickly, then asked for more.
When the light–skinned brotha moved back in his direction, Jamal stuck out his hand. “Jamal James.”
“Lloyd Hall,” he replied, giving him a firm shake. “You new around here?”
Jamal shook his head. “Just too old for the pick–up scene, ya know.”
Lloyd laughed. “Right. Aren’t we all.”
“So, Lloyd, you going to give me what you gave the honey?”
“Hpnotiq, bro.”
“What’s in it?”
Lloyd shrugged. “I gave it to her straight. She snatched the glass and shot it before I added anything to it. Usually it’s a mix. Alone it’s potent.”
“Just one shot enough to mess her up?” Jamal asked, wondering why she would have gulped it down and if that was the reason his Fly–Girl had been so wild that night. What wasn’t a good idea was going home with a rocked–up cock with no pussy to ease it.
“Depends. It’d make her feel good. What she drank wouldn’t get most people shit–faced drunk, though. All about tolerance.” He grabbed the liquor bottle and sloshed it around. “Been told this junk makes you feel Missy Elliot.”
“Missy Elliot?”
“Getcha–Getcha–Getcha freak on. Like finding a chick to go home with. It makes you hot, and cold showers and self–inflicted hand–jobs won’t cut it. You’ll need to get–up–in–it, or suffer. Not something you drink then go home alone.”
“You ever tried it?”
“I serve it. Don’t drink it.”
Jamal glanced away from the bar, scanning the dance floor again, desire making him desperate to find his mind–blowing fuck from last week. His gut knowing she wasn’t there.
“Just fill up my beer.”
The music changed again. The sultry voice of Mariah Carey seduced Jamal away from the bar, leaving his drink behind. Hottie wasn’t here. He was going home alone and didn’t need an aphrodisiac to give him a painful hard–on. She’d already done that.
Chapter 6
Kat shifted the basket off her lap and stretched out her knees, her legs tired from the hours they were folded beneath her. Searching through the letters neatly stacked within the circular weave didn’t ordinarily take so long. She relaxed against the cushions of the backyard lounge chair and allowed her mind to float away from the pages of couples’ cries for help. Her lids drifted closed as she breathed in the morning air, still crisp enough to offer a measure of solace, but quickly warming in the lift of the summer sunshine.
It was going to be a hot day, she realized, opening her eyes and reaching for a tall glass of iced tea, the beads of condensation wetting her fingertips. An answering droplet of sweat slid between her breasts.
Is that how his tongue would feel? Hot and wet and slick. Arousing.
Repressing a shallow pant, Kat opted for a long drink of tea to chase away the memories. The need of wanting a nameless man she’d never see again.
Mr. Gorgeous may have been hot to trot for one night, but he didn’t belong to her and she’d had no right to sample the finger–licking goods he’d offered. But that didn’t stop her from fantasizing. From dreaming of his touch. His cock. How good he’d felt inside her. From wanting him inside her again.
She wedged the ice cold glass into her cleavage, chasing the heat from her body. Her nipples puckered from the cold. With want. With a hungry need to be on the receiving end of the moisture’s attention. A cold line of liquid slid from the glass along her body, puddling in her shallow belly button.
“Get over it, girl,” she whispered, setting her glass aside and using her t–shirt to mop up her damp skin. She chose to ignore the wetness in her panties as if it didn’t exist. Better to pretend it didn’t than to dwell on the fact that she was single. And horny. And not getting any. Not any time soon.
Kat reached for the basket. She had a second deadline looming and couldn’t lament continuously that her job for the weekend had already been met. Yeah, it’d been a wham–bam, mind–blowing flash of writing, inspired by an equally mind–blowing screw, but she had another task to deal with now. Best she focus on that. Reliving the way Mr. Gorgeous fucked did no good but leave her body on fire, drenched with want, and aching. Unsatisfied.
Better to focus on her more respectable job. The one she put her name on and took credit for.
Balancing the basket on her lap, she sifted through the letters lined up in order of receipt and tried to decide which of them she was going to answer.
Easing one from the envelope, she unfolded the pages and read over the carefully written words of the well–crafted, but desperately–needy plea. These weren’t words of sex, but of love. Of a wife who needed reassurance that her man was true. Begging for advice on her relationship and how to save her marriage.
A pang of regret radiated through Kat’s heart. How was she supposed to comfort this woman? What could she possibly say to ease the writer’s concern about her man’s fidelity—or lack thereof? For all Kat knew, she’d been on the receiving end of this man’s dick just the past Friday night. Oh, yeah, baby and what a glorious dick it’d been.
She shook her head. Mr. Gorgeous. Fine–ass brotha with ten inches of sex therapy had been the man she’d been with. Not this woman’s husband. Not anyone’s husband, Kat assured herself. The flesh that had been all–up–in–her had been unnamed and unclaimed as far as she was concerned. She had to keep reminding herself not to think of all the horrible consequences of what could have been.
Damn! Writing a relationship column had been a whole hell of a lot easier last week.
But this week was well underway and what was she supposed to tell her editor down at the paper? “Sorry, I didn’t make deadline. I got fucked hard and fast against a brick wall and now I can’t think. Apparently, I got my brains fucked out!”
Lifting the small silver cell phone resting against the cushion beside her, she thought about calling Jamal. Maybe she should just tell her agent she didn’t want to write these fix–it relationship columns anymore. She didn’t have a clue about what real relationships were or how they worked. She’d never actually been in one.
But she could hear Jamal’s rich tone gently reminding her of her contract. Kat sucked a deep breath, holding it in her lungs until it burned, then allowed it to slowly slide from her lips as she bucked–up and faced the truth.
If she was going to give up any writing, it’d be the prostitution work she did—selling sex, albeit stories of sex, but it was sex just the same. It was a rhythm of words rather than hips, but still for one purpose. To get a man off.
“How’s my favorite little hooker?”
Kat
