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Anais
Camille Blue
“This is the last time that I dress you to return to him, Anais,” my love said.
I gazed into Hamilton’s fathomless, dark eyes and nodded.
Hamilton always washed me from head to toe before I returned to my husband. He would rinse away all the spicy, moist scents and residues from our love. His strong hands moved with gentle possessiveness as he parted my legs and eased his soapy fingers over and inside my vagina. He cleansed me, while branding me with his touch from the inside out.
Hamilton would then dry me in thick, fluffy white towels and lay me across his lap as he massaged cocoa body butter all over my tingling skin. When he finished my massage, he held out my deep purple satin and lace bra. I slipped my arms into the bra and fastened it. Then Hamilton dipped his hands inside my bra and adjusted my breasts, before drawing my silk panties up my legs and over my hips and butt. His hands roamed over my barely clad body. He almost smiled then, as if against his will. He seemed to hate to reveal the pleasure he got from handling me, before I had to leave him for another.
His tender attention continued as he smoothed my silk stockings up my legs and hooked them to my garters. I stepped into my black sheath dress and he drew it up my body. Like a child, I lifted my arms high and through the armholes of my dress. Hamilton zipped up my dress and held me close from behind. After a kiss on the neck, he bent and put my stiletto pumps back on my feet. He rose slowly, watching me the entire time.
I smiled up at my magnificent love, Hamilton Kincaid. His smooth, deeply brown skin stretched gracefully over his six-foot-four muscular frame. His thick, curly black hair felt like raw silk whenever I sank my fingers into it. His angular, chiseled face with its high cheekbones called to mind African royalty from years long past. But those lips of his were the sexiest that I had kissed or would ever.
“I love you, Hamilton,” I said. I wanted him to feel my love in his pores and throughout all the cells in his body.
“Enough to leave him?” Hamilton’s gaze captured mine in a relentless hold.
“Yes.” The warmth of my decision cloaked me for a few seconds, before the fear of actually leaving my husband descended.
Hamilton kissed me so hard and long that we both were heavily and audibly breathing when we parted.
I gathered my coat and purse. I touched his cheek and left.
Hamilton and I had met at a jazz supper club, five months prior. I had been waiting to have dinner with my husband. After an hour, Justin had called to say that not only was he not going to meet me, but that he would not be home that night. I was preparing to leave when Hamilton appeared next to me at the bar. He gave me a slow smile that was sinful in its appeal.
“Stay with me,” he said, then held out his hand.
My small hand found my way into his. I sat back down with a smile of my own. We talked for hours about everything from the state of the world to how celebrity-obsessed our culture had become. Hamilton asked me what made me smile. I fell in love with him then.
We met several times at different clubs and restaurants over the next three weeks. I held out for a month, before I let myself make love with him. Our first night of love was the genesis of many more nights of the most intense passion, pleasure, and cherishment that my body had ever known.
I smiled in sweet remembrance and returned my mind to the present day. I belted my black trench coat tightly to ward off the whipping, freezing wind of an early Illinois spring. I hurried to get in my car. With regret, I left Hamilton in Oak Park as I returned to my husband’s downtown Chicago condo.
I let myself inside the five-thousand-square-foot, ultramodern condo with its stark black-and-white furnishings and white-marble-tiled floors. After five years of living in this showplace, I still felt like a visitor who had long overstayed my welcome.
My husband, Justin Alexander Watson III, strolled in late the next evening.
“Hello,” I said. “Dinner will be ready soon. May I get you a drink?”
“Martini. Vodka,” he ordered, and brushed past me on his way to the bedroom.
Twenty minutes later, he joined me in the dining room. I set the plate of prime rib, scalloped potatoes, and green beans with sliced almonds in front of him. I sat down in front of my dinner of skinless, grilled chicken breast with mixed bitter greens salad. I looked across the table and observed my absentee husband.
Justin was a handsome man. With his golden eyes, golden skin, golden fit body, and diamond-bright smile, Justin had it all and he knew it. He used his good looks, cunning, and legal skills to win many high-profile criminal cases. He was an anaconda in an angel’s body.
“I’m leaving,” he said.
“Your parents—”
“I don’t need to be reminded of my parents’ visit,” he said with a freezing look. “Marisa’s birthday is tomorrow.” He took a sip of his drink and smiled at me. “I’m flying her to New York to celebrate.”
Justin had stopped lying about his other women three years ago. Unfortunately for me, I did not
stop caring about his affairs until almost a year ago.
I gave him the practiced look of hurt and acceptance that I had mastered. He richly enjoyed hurting me. I allowed him to think that I still cared enough about him to be emotionally hurt by him. It was imperative that Justin believe my charade. I had to be certain that he in no way suspected that I was loving Hamilton hard and good every chance Justin would give me.
