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She grins, reaching for the pitcher of cranberry juice on the table, pouring some in a crystal tumbler. “So Miss Anonymous did email you. Nice. Let’s see what she looks like?”
“Well, we still don’t know what her face looks like, but here’s what she sent.”
Marika stares at the screen. A slow smile creeps over her lips. “Ooh, she has the nerve to have a nice body.”
“True indeed,” I say, scooping eggs out onto her plate. “You want one or two sausage?” She doesn’t respond. “Babe?”
“Huh?” I repeat myself. “One, please. Thanks.”
I laugh. “Yo, let me find out she got you all caught up.”
“I will say this, she’s definitely tempting.”
“True,” I say, walking her plate over to her.
“Thanks. Everything looks good.” She bows her head and says grace, then slides a forkful of eggs into her mouth. “Mmm, these eggs are delicious.”
I join her at the table, sitting in a chair next to her. She chews and swallows, pointing at the laptop.
“So, what do you plan on doing with her?”
I smirk. “Uh. What would you like me to do with her?”
She tilts her head. “Would you fuck her?”
I grin. “Would you?”
She shrugs. “Under different circumstances, maybe. Depends on what her face looked like. And whether or not we clicked. You know it’s always about the mental and physical connection.”
I nod knowingly. The “different circumstances” being if Miss Anonymous was someone we met at a private event instead of her being some horny radio listener tryna get a good fuck.
“Oh, by the way,” I say, reaching for my napkin and wiping my mouth, “before I forget. I got an email from Arianna. There’s an album release party for Laila Evans next Tuesday.”
“Ooh, I love her music,” Marika says, taking a sip of her juice. With the highly anticipated release of her sophomore album, Laila Evans is R&B’s hottest chick next to Beyoncé right now. A cross between Amel Larrieux and Rihanna, the five-foot-eight bombshell beauty has the whole industry turned upside down with her fiery talent and exquisite beauty. “Where’s the party being hosted?”
I tell her at Club Amnesia over on 29th Street. That the doors open at ten and close at four a.m. “We can slide through real quick, make an appearance, then bounce before the party goes into full swing.”
Her brow furrows. “Please don’t tell me this is open to the public. If so, I’ll pass.”
Although Marika loves to mix and mingle, she’s not really big on industry parties. And she typically doesn’t attend them unless it’s an artist she really digs or if I press her enough to go, which I usually don’t.
“Nah, nah. Invitation only, baby. You know better than that. It’s real exclusive. I’ll have you home and tucked in bed by midnight.”
Her eyes sparkle, as if she’s already planning the night out in her head. “Oh, I’ll be ready to get tucked in bed all right, but it won’t be to sleep,” she says teasingly.
“So that’s a yes? You’re going?”
She nods. “I’d like nothing more than to be there. Laila can sing to me anytime.”
I grin. “Real talk, baby. She could get the dick if she wasn’t on our label.”
Marika smirks, running a hand along her neck. “I’d have to taste her juices, first.”
My mouth waters. “Oh, no doubt, baby. She’d definitely have to sit on that sexy tongue of yours.” She slides her tongue over her lips, then flicks it up and down. My dick twitches. “Let me get some of that.”
I lean over and kiss her, parting my lips as she slides her tongue in. Chills slide down my spine as her slick tongue slides around mine. Her robe comes open at the belted waist, exposing her bare thighs, her naked pussy. Shit. I groan into her mouth, feeling my dick stretch. Marika’s the only woman who knows how to fuck my head up with just a kiss.
I reach for her. Squeeze her right breast as my free hand eases between her legs.
