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I smile. Tell her I’d love that. I glance at the time. It’s already a quarter to eleven. I tell Jasmine I have to get ready for a meeting. We exchange a few more words before hanging up.
I get up from my desk as my private line rings.
“Hello, this is Marika.”
“Yo, what’s up sexy?”
I smile, sitting back in my chair. “You.” I lick my lips. “You miss me already?”
“Always, baby. You already know.” His voice vibrates through me. I press my legs together, feeling a sweet throb slowly pulsing in my pussy.
“Mmm. I love the sound of that. And as bad as I’d love to have dirty phone sex with you, I spent the last twenty minutes on the phone with Jasmine. And I have a meeting in”—I glance at the time in the upper-right corner of my desktop—“less than ten minutes.”
He chuckles. “Nah, we good, baby. It’s a lil’ hectic here for all that right now, anyway. I just wanna make sure you don’t have anything planned for us this weekend.”
I swivel in my chair, glancing out the huge window, taking in the spectacular view of Times Square. “No. Nothing’s planned. Why, what’s up?”
“I just got off the phone with our pilot. We’re going to L.A.,” he says coolly. But there’s a hint of wicked amusement in his tone.
“Oh, is that so,” I say coyly, running a hand through my curls. “And what kind of devilish fun is happening in the City of Angels this weekend?”
“An invite-only party in Beverly Hills. It just came via courier. I’ll give you all the details later.”
I grin, sliding my warm tongue over my glossed lips as a slow heat rolls up into the center of my pussy. An invitation-only party only meant one thing: a weekend of scandalous seduction. One full of hot, dirty fucking. And whatever happens in L.A. stays in L.A.
I ask what time we leave. He tells me our flight is tonight.
8:30 p.m.
“Mmm. I can’t wait.”
“Me, either, baby.”
FIVE
Marcel
“Yo, what’s good, pussy,” my boy Carlos says, knocking on the door as I’m hanging up the phone with Marika. I could almost smell my baby’s pussy juices percolating when I told her we’d be leaving tonight for this mansion freak party out in Beverly Hills.
Carlos steps into my office wearing a black leather biker jacket over a black mesh pullover with a pair of ripped, faded jeans and black riding boots. Swag on ten, his whole getup is from the Ralph Lauren Black Label collection. That’s all this muhfucka rocks, that or the Purple Label.
He’s a straight-up pretty boy. A mix of Native American, Italian, and African, his exotic looks have always had chicks falling at his big-ass feet. And I’m not gonna front on his dick game ’cause dude stays baggin’ mad pussy with his green eyes and all that coal-black, wavy hair, which he wears in his signature ponytail.
We’ve been boys since junior high. But all through high school we were thick as thieves, hugging the block, turning up at all the hot parties, and fucking all the baddest chicks. Then we graduated. He went off to Morehouse on a track an
d academic scholarship. And I went to Howard to play for the Bison on a basketball scholarship.
Aside from pledging the same frat and having the same taste in women, we are polar opposites. His family’s caked up. Mine lived check to check. He graduated summa cum laude with a degree in biology and a minor in neuroscience. I graduated magna cum laude with a degree in communications and radio broadcasting.
Yet, I’m the one actually doing something with my degree. This niggah decided in his second year at Harvard to drop out of medical school to pursue a career singing and modeling. Garnered by the gossip rags around the globe as an international playboy, he’s been linked to several Hollywood starlets, a few R&B songstresses, and several supermodels in Paris and New York. Still, I keep telling his ass chicks ain’t checkin’ for his kind like that anymore. But the muhfucka still thinks red-skinned niggahs are on top.
Still, I gotta say, he’s jet-setting and doing big things. And, although his pops was pissed at him for not becoming a surgeon, like himself and his grandfather, he’s finally come around. I gotta give it to dude. He stepped out on faith and followed his dreams. Now, two R&B albums in, several appearances in commercials and film, and a six-figure modeling contract with a major fashion designer, he’s posted up on large billboards in his drawz and his face stays plastered on the cover of one magazine or another.
“Oh, shit, ugly muhfucka.” I laugh, getting up from my desk, smiling. He’s been over in Europe touring and doing some modeling gig for the last six months so it’s been a minute since we’ve linked up. We give each other dap, then embrace in a brotherly hug. The scent of his expensive cologne floats around the space between us. “What up? When’d ya stinkin’-ass get back in the States?”
He joins in my laughter. “Yeah, aiight, muhfucka. I got ya ugly all right with ya chocolate Morris Chestnut-lookin’ass. Big bubblehead muhfucka.” I laugh as he pulls back one of the leather chairs situated in front of my desk and takes a seat. He removes his black Aviator shades. “I got in last week, bruh.”
I raise a brow, pulling out the other chair and taking a seat. “And you just checkin’ me now? Funny-style ass. You coulda at least shot me a text to let me know you touched down. Damn, muhfucka.”
