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“Yup. I’m not keeping any secrets from him.”
I tilted my head. “Mmmm, just keeping them from me; interesting. Does Paris know?”
She shook her head. “No, I haven’t said anything to her either. It’s not like I want to keep this from you and Paris. I just don’t want to speak too soon without being sure. I want the two of you to be happy for me.”
“Mmmm, okay. You’re my sister, and I love you. Of course I’m going to be happy for you. What kind of mess is that?” I wanted to be happy for her, but shit. Other than some mystery man who she felt the need to keep secret from me, she wasn’t giving me much to be happy about. “But I won’t deny that I’m offended that you didn’t want to share that you’ve been seeing someone with me.”
“Persia, it’s not personal.”
“Well, it feels personal to me. But, whatever, girl. When you’re ready to share, I’ll be here.”
She smiled. “Thanks. I need to get up outta here. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Okay, then. Get it in for the both of us.”
“I sure will. A girl’s gotta keep this body tight.”
“I know that’s right,” I said, waving her on. I watched as she walked out of the room, then plopped back down, covering my face with my sheets. And, yes, pissed and hurt that both of my sisters have been keeping shit from me. I mean, really, we’re sisters. They should be able to trust me with everything. And keeping secrets shouldn’t be an option between us. It wasn’t when we were growing up. And it shouldn’t be now, but it is. Then there’s Paris. For the last three weeks, she hasn’t been acting herself. She seems… I don’t know, almost sad. Maybe sad isn’t the right word. But she definitely seems different, and very preoccupied.
I catch her in the kitchen sitting at the table eating a fruit salad. She seems lost in space. I ask if everything is alright. “Yeah, of course. I’ve been really tired lately; that’s all.”
“Are you sure that’s all? For the last few weeks, you haven’t seemed like yourself. I’m worried about you.”
She gives me a faint smile, shifting her eyes. “Thanks, but don’t be. It’s nothing serious; trust me. I’ll be fine. Like I said, I’ve been real tired lately.”
I walk over and give her a hug. “Well, if you want to talk about it, whatever it is—serious or not, I’m here for you. You know that, right?”
She nods, squeezes me tight. “Thanks. I know you are.” She looks at me; takes in my outfit, then glances down at my feet. She frowns. I’m wearing her grape python Gucci four-inch platform T-strap heels. “Hooker, are those my heels?”
“Yeah,” I say, profiling them for her. “I figured I’d break them in for you since they were still sitting waiting to be worn.”
She grunts. “Mmmph, whatever. Where you off to today in my shoes?”
I chuckle, shifting my eyes. I can’t stand looking at her at that moment. I hate the possibility, the probability, that her mood change might have something to do with her six-foot-something secret. The one I’ve been sneakily seeing behind her back. Yes, messy as it may be, it is inconsequential to me at this very moment. I’m enjoying him. And he’s enjoying me. Well, he thinks he’s enjoying Paris, but that’s not the point. The point is she should’ve mentioned him to me. Should’ve told me he was off limits, but she didn’t. And now what I thought would be a few rounds of fucking, then sending him on his way, has turned into me wanting to spend more time with him, wanting to keep fucking him. I fuck him, suck him, give him my pussy and ass raw and have literally led him to believe that I’m Paris; that I want to be in an exclusive relationship with him. Truth is, I do. Well, okay, I’m lying. I simply want to keep fucking him. Fact is, I want to keep fucking Royce, too. I want them both.
I would’ve never thought in a million years, I’d be in this kind of predicament. Pretending to be one of my sisters has never been an issue for me. But trying to keep up this lie is becoming a bit more challenging the more time I spend with my—well, Paris’s, mystery man. The way he looks at me, touches me, holds me, and calls my…uh, Paris’s…name, leads me to believe he really cares about me. I mean her. But, I want him, too.
We’ve been talking on the phone and texting each other almost every day since the night I whispered my cell number in his ear. And I’ve been sneaking off to meet him down at the boutique late in the evening when I know Paris is already home. Or we’ve been fucking in hotel rooms. Then, in between fucking him, I’m still fucking Royce.
With Royce, what we share can’t go anywhere other than in the sheets. He’s my guilty pleasure. I’ve told him this. He fucks me good. I enjoy spending quality time with him in bed; that’s it. He’s too young for anything else. He still needs to find his way. He’s a damn waiter, for Christ’s sake! There’s nothing he can offer me besides that b
ig-ass dick. And I make sure to fuck him at least once a week. And if it’s on a night that Paris’s mystery man wants to see me, I suck mystery man’s dick real good, then let him stuff my ass. It feels so good in my ass. He’s the first man I’ve ever experienced creaming out of my ass with. But, he’s not as adventurous as I’d like him to be. I like tonguing a man’s ass. Like slipping my finger into his asshole, massaging his prostate. Mystery man isn’t open to that. Royce is. I like handcuffing and blindfolding men. I like being in control. Mystery man isn’t open to that. Royce is. Mystery man’s dick isn’t long and thick. Royce’s is. Still, I want them both.
“You’re dressed like you have a hot date or something.”
“I wish,” I say, moving around the kitchen. My cell buzzes. I pull it out of my bag. It’s a text from Mystery Man. U STILL CUMMIN THRU?
I quickly text back: YES!
I slip my phone back into my bag, opening a cabinet and pulling out a glass. I open the ’fridge and pour myself some pomegranate juice. Do anything to keep from looking into her eyes. “So where are you off to?” she asks.
“I have a new client I’m trying to snag,” I say, putting my glass to my lips, then gulping down my lie. I sit the glass in the sink. “I better get going.”
“Not that you need it, but good luck. I hope you reel him or her in.”
“Thanks. I think already have,” I tell her, grabbing my bag off the counter, then heading out the kitchen. She stops me in my tracks.
“Persia, when you covered for me down at the boutique, are you certain there weren’t any calls for me; from a man, in particular?”
