Original Stories Fan Fiction ❯ Black's Magic ❯ Black's Magic ( Chapter 1 )

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]

Note: Sorry for the earlier mix-up. I uploaded the wrong file; that was part of the rough draft and not the completed whole. Again, all apologies, and I hope those of you familiar with my fanfics enjoy this bit of original work. This is the type of stuff I generally write :)



Guys didn‘t read, and therefore, didn‘t believe in fairytales. They weren‘t raised to be princes. They weren‘t taught to seek out Cinderella or Sleeping Beauty or Snow White. There were no dragons to slay, curses to break, or glass slippers to fill. There was no such thing as true love, love at first sight or a soul mate.

It was fuck or be fucked, and you left this world just as alone as when you entered it.

He couldn‘t say for certain when he became so cynical, so pessimistic, so jaded as to the turns his life would eventually take. He only knew he was doomed.

No matter what small fortune, what minor miracle, what benevolent being may enter into his life, at the end of the day, everything always returned to ruins. He would never be anything more than he was, and no matter what the Lord saw fit to give him, someone always came and took it away.

He was just born under a bad sign, he supposed. Not that he believed any of that shit. A man made his own luck; he just hadn‘t found the right recipe.

But . . . this latest development in his life, had him hoping beyond all reason that there was just a little bit of magic left in the world, and just one, small smidgen of an iota was reserved for him . . . and her . . .

“You’re such a prude, Daniel.” She laughed, raising up on tiptoes, stretching her right arm high above her head to fill the empty slot she’d created just seconds before on one of his shop’s topmost shelves.

Any other man would have been irritated, if not outright offended at the verbal jibe, but he’d known her so long, they’d been through so much, and her laughter was just so damned . . . soothing . . . that even if she cussed your mother, burned down your house, totaled your car and kicked your dog, you wouldn't, no, couldn't get mad at her because her laughter was just so alive, just so musical, just so lyrical that you had no choice but listen to every word she said with a smile on your face as your head nodded time to her rhythm and your lips mimicked the words spilling from her mouth.

She was an unknowing Siren, you were her knowing slave, and you couldn't imagine life any other way.

Some man owning her, possessing her, attempting to break her with whips and chains? Impossible. Slavery may have been in the history of her people, but he could see no such manacles ever marring that beautifully bronzed skin, that tightly toned flesh, that softly shimmering complexion that spoke not only of health, but of . . . un-use . . . or maybe disuse was the more appropriate term.

His cousin, Terri, who happened to be Mecca's (yes, that was her name) best friend, had said she hadn't let a man touch her in over five years. Considering her attractiveness and obviously open attitude about sex, he found that hard to believe. But, in one of their awkwardly intimate moments they often shared but seldom spoke of, she confessed something to him that she swore she'd never told another living soul.

He couldn't really remember how the conversation began, but it took a turn (as it often did) to the differences between men and women. He'd said that women were duplicitous and untrustworthy, freely shouting out useless shit, but never telling you the things you really needed to know--like STDs. He'd been bored one night and couldn't sleep, and while channel-surfing he'd come across a report about Herpes on The Learning Channel. It said that one out of every four women had Herpes and either a)didn't know or b)knew and had no intention of telling you.

She was sitting in the store's empty window seat, her back towards the glass, her legs folded beneath her, her fingers fiddling with a loose thread on the bottom of her tank top. She was dressed from head-to-toe in white except for this wicked pair of dark brown gladiator sandals that snaked all the way up to her knees and tied neatly behind them. "All men are dogs," she'd said. "They'll fuck anything that moves whether you want them to or not, and they don't even have the sense to know there's something wrong with that."

Then she spewed out a statistic of her own.

"Did you know that by the age of 18 one out of every four women will have been sexually assaulted?"

He didn't really know what to say.

"And nobody really does anything about it. They're just numbers. Just statistics. But it's pretty scary when you think about it. I mean, think of four women you know, and odds are at least one of them has been forced to do something they didn't wanna do."

He still didn't know what to say, but he felt if he stayed silent, she'd sort him in the same category as all the others. "Not all men rape." It sounded weak, without any real conviction; a hollow statement meant to pacify as opposed to console.

"Yeah? Well, not every chick has Herpes or is trying to hide the fact that she has Herpes. Hiding other things, though..."

Things got uncomfortably quiet, and he felt the unconscious need to make himself busy in the back room by performing price checks and other mindless tasks that would remove him from the situation, but keep him from looking like a total ass. This was his shop, after all. He did have a job he was supposed to be doing. The movies, CDs, games, systems and controllers weren't gonna stock themselves.

She continued to sit there as he made his way to the back, behind the black curtain he'd hung up as a makeshift divider between his "office" and the actual "store." He had shelves and shelves of DVDs, stacks upon stacks of CDs, and rows upon rows of games and VHS tapes haphazardly arranged in his crowded little cubby hole. There was a 27" TV in front of him, connected to a PS2, an XBOX and a VCR. His computer desk was behind him, cluttered with various action figures, sports memorabilia and actual office supplies you'd need to run a business--pencils, pens, paper clips, a stapler, staples, rubber bands, and a somewhat outdated computer, equipped with Windows 98. And all his back-stock surrounded him.

If you were claustrophobic, you would've suffocated back there. But he wasn't claustrophobic and was quite comforted by his odd arrangement of possessions. Superman had his Fortress of Solitude, and he had his . . . Cavern of Clutter-tude.

He smiled to himself and settled back into his desk chair, then wheeled it around to face the TV. Just as he was about to click it "On," she appeared on the other side of the curtain. It didn't completely touch the opposing wall. There was a "doorway," of sorts that could comfortably accommodate two full-sized adults and a decorative mirror that he used to keep his eye on potential shoplifters.

"Do you . . . do you think I could use your bathroom? Normally, I'd just go home, but . . ."

He was so . . . fascinated by the thought of her bare ass touching his porcelain seat, he couldn't form a single, coherent word; he merely nodded in the direction she was to go.

There was a doorway (depending on which way he was facing) off to his immediate left/right. Once inside, straight ahead was a less-than-sophisticated sound system and the sudden left held a room longer than it was wide. To the far left was a personal shrine of sorts, composed of various religious images, Good Luck cards from his opening, and a vase containing a single, artificial black rose, Mecca, herself, had seen fit to give him. It wasn't a curse, or anything. Black was his favorite color, and they hadn't known each other long enough for any other color to be given with any amount of sincerity. The toilet, a mirror and a sink were to the far right. All of which, luckily, he'd just cleaned.

He heard the light switch flick "On" and the sound of flat shoes on vinyl flooring. The footsteps stopped and (he didn't mean to listen so hard) he swore he could hear every tooth of her zipper as it came undone. Or, perhaps it was just his mind playing tricks on him. It had been well over two years since that particular sound had graced his ears, and when it was his ex, Alicia, doing the undressing it was always accompanied by an irritated/exasperated look and a sigh of utter boredom. He'd managed to fuck her twice before the effort it took to maintain an erection with her became greater than the pleasure of mutual release.

Not that she ever came for him, he ruefully recalled. She'd "tolerate" his touch. She'd put up with his grunting and grinding. He could lick and suck and fuck where he may, but she refused to enjoy it. Two times was all he could take. She'd mentally castrated him their first time together, and the second time was an exercise in futility. He wanted to prove that he wasn't as "whipped" as his friends had said. He'd fuck this bitch till his come filled her every orifice, she was so bow-legged all her friends would call her "Hoss," and she'd break the world's record for the highest note hit, inaudible to man.

But, shit. She was cold, dry and motionless. He ate her out till his tongue cramped up, he played with her tits till he got a severe case of carpal tunnel, and he'd gotten himself so worked up, trying to get her worked up, he came the instant he entered her. She'd looked at him, asked if he was done, then shoved him off to go get high in the bathroom. And they went on like that for over a year. He knew it sounded pathetic, and he certainly felt pathetic, but he needed her. Even if she treated him like shit and made him feel a million times worse than that, he did have a girlfriend. He introduced her as such, and she never argued the fact. That, in of itself, earned him some amount of masculine esteem from his friends. "Yeah," one of them had said. "Alicia's a bitch, but she's your bitch."

True, Mecca could come across as cold and hard, and it could certainly be argued that every move she made was calculated to the nth degree of certainty. But if you looked beyond the well-preserved degrees, the well-toned body, the impeccably applied makeup, and the expensive-looking, but cheaply purchased clothing, there was something undeniably soft lying underneath. Something in her eyes, something in her laugh, something in the way she moved when she thought no one was looking. There was a strange . . . sensuality to her strength, as a wayward child might look up to a stern mother. You couldn't help but want her love and approval because you just knew with her on your side, you could never lose.

She wouldn't take shit from you or anyone else, but she'd happily take shit for you and give you anything you wanted as long as you treated her right.

"I'm one of the statistics."

The sound of her voice snapped him from his reverie. He was still in his "office;" she was still in the bathroom.

"N-not the Herpes one. The other one . . . I . . . um . . . I'm the one in four."

He took a moment to process the information she'd just given him. Her? One in four? Raped?

He scoffed to himself, shaking his head. She'd never let anything like that happen. Just the idea that some guy would try to touch her without her say-so was just . . . ridiculous. She'd kill them long before anything of significance could happen.

"You keep saying that doing a little weed never hurt anybody, and I'm not saying that it does. But I was a little drunk, and whole lot high, mainly because I was nervous. I mean, I really liked this guy, and I'd just . . . well, I'd been with this guy for awhile, and he was really nice, and we talked about getting married and kids and . . . all that shit. And then he just . . . dumped me. Said I was too good for him, and I should stop wasting my life."

She sounded really . . . not like herself. Small, fragile . . . vulnerable.

"My friends wanted me to just call him an asshole and forget the whole thing, but . . . he should've been my first. I kind of . . . made the offer a few times, but . . . he always seemed kind of freaked out by it. Like, he didn't wanna put his 'dirty' hands all over me or something, but I . . . I really, really liked him."

She became too quiet, and becoming quickly uncomfortable with the situation, he tried to . . . help her along. "And he . . ."
"No! Allen . . . no. He'd never. Like I said, he didn't wanna get me dirty, but Eric was . . . Eric was . . . very charming. And my best friend's brother to boot, so . . . What could go wrong, you know? I just wanted to go out and have some fun and . . . get laid for once in my life."

Again, she grew quiet, then he heard her sigh.

"I started to get a bad feeling halfway into the night. You know, that gut feeling that something just isn't right. But . . . I'm hardheaded. Once I decide I wanna do something, I do it. Pride won't allow me to back down. It's gonna kill me one of these days, but fuck it. It's my life, and I'll live it the way I want, you know?"

"Yeah." He was familiar with the feeling, but he'd yet to actually do it: live life the way he wanted to.

"But he took me to this bar I'd never been to, showing me off like some sort of . . . freakish trophy. I mean, I'm not new to being the only black face in a crowd, but having it pointed out by the guy I'm with, and having him try to start shit with other people because of it . . . I should've flat out cussed him and told him to take me home."

"But you didn't."

"No. I had a few more drinks till I mellowed out and didn't feel so pissy and . . . I let him stick his fucking hand up my skirt. I mean, what the fuck? I don't do shit like that. True, there's a time and a place for everything, but in a crowded redneck bar certainly isn't one of them."

Feeling the need to contribute in some constructive way, "You've always struck me as a rather private person."

"Exactly! I don't do that shit out in public, but, go for the gusto, you know. Everyone in the place obviously thought I was some sort of black whore, so why not act like one and put on a good show?"

Show?

"He had his fingers up my cooch, so I wrapped my hand around his cock and started jerking him off."

Daniel swallowed hard. This was certainly not the type of conversation you wanted to be having with a half-naked woman through a bathroom door . . . especially one with no lock on it.

"So I straddle him and put my ass in his lap and said 'Let's do this.' He pushes me off him, grabs our coats, pays our tab and drags me out the door."

Damn, he wished he could actually do something like that. Grab a girl, say let's go and actually have her do it.

"But it was cold outside, and I slowly started coming to my senses. Something kept saying, 'you don't really wanna do this. You don't really wanna do this.' Then he shoves my back against his car, sticks his tongue down my throat and his hand up my shirt."

Sympathy, he reminded himself. She wants sympathy and understanding. She doesn't want you to jack off while she shows you her soul. This is traumatic for her; it shouldn't be a turn-on.

"And part of me hates it, but part of me likes it. I keep reminding myself that the first time is supposed to hurt, and I'm not really gonna like it, anyway, so all this shit is no big deal. Just go back to his place. Let him do what he needs to do, and it'll be over with. You won't have to be on guard so much anymore. So paranoid about rapists hiding around every corner. So freaked out about relationships because you know eventually everything will come down to sex: will you or won't you?

You will because you already have, and there won't be any over-convoluted discussion involved because the topic of your virginity no longer exists."

Curiosity overcame him, and he had to ask. "How old were you?"

He imagined her shaking her head.

"You won't believe me."

"Why wouldn't I believe you?"

"In this day and age, it's an oddity. Frankly, I wanted to get rid of it because it was making me feel sort of odd. And every time you go out with a guy, and it goes beyond three dates, they always have to push the envelope, and then you have to tell them. And," sigh, "they ask you if you're frigid or gay or just all sorts of stupid shit, and I got sick of it. I was 26."

She was 29 at the time they'd had this conversation.

"And I've never told anyone. Everyone just assumes or assumed, you know. I didn't even tell Eric. I was afraid that if I did, he'd turn out to be like Allen, and fuck that. I was getting too old."

He scooted his chair back to the bathroom doorway. "So, if you wanted to, how did he?"

Again, she sighed. "You know the definition of rape is a forced act of sex. I willingly went down on the guy. I'd done it before; it wasn't any big deal. Of course, I said 'yes' to vaginal because I wanted him to pop my cherry, but then he . . ."

Daniel felt his stomach turn.

"At first I thought it was a mistake. I mean, he'd been drinking, I'd been drinking, and we'd both smoked a bowl. I wrote it off, and laughed and told him he was in the wrong hole."

He forced a half-hearted laugh to match her own.

"He laughed, apologized, and stuck it where it was 'supposed' to go. I mean, my back was completely to him. I was on my knees bent over the couch, and actually, it was kind of starting to feel good, until he took it out and put it in my butt. But, you know, it was an honest mistake, I thought.

Till he did it again, and wouldn't stop."

That was something Daniel never understood. There had to be something severely wrong in a man's head to be more turned on by "No" than by "Yes." To have to knock a chick around, hold her down and force yourself inside her. He'd never forced Alicia to do anything, but he knew from experience there was nothing more uninviting than a dry pussy. Things just didn't . . . fit the way they were supposed to, and it was usually more painful than pleasurable.

"At first, my head was all foggy, and I was still giggly, and I kept telling him he was making a mistake, and it was in the wrong hole, and that it really . . . hurt. I thought, you know, he'd stop. But, after a couple of minutes, I knew he wasn't, so I . . . I elbowed him in the ribs. I clawed him in the eyes . . . which got him off me, then I kicked him in the balls while calling him every foul name I could think of, and . . . he thought it was funny. He . . . I guess he didn't think there was anything wrong with what he did. He curled into a ball and told me I should calm down and 'loosen' up. I . . ."

Her voice faded off into nothingness, and he again found himself straining to make out any sounds from the restroom. When it became too quiet, too still, he scooted himself into the hallway, just outside the bathroom door. All he had to do was stand up, step up and turn the knob . . . then he heard it: sniffling.

"I don't know why I told you that. I mean, I guess you tell me a lot of things you say you've never told anyone before, but men lie, and I guess I don't want you to be a liar, and I don't wanna come across like an insensitive bitch, and with what we were talking about . . . It just came out. Maybe it's been wanting to come out, but . . . I know other girls this has happened to, I mean, some like me where you know the guy and others where it's this totally random act of violence, and I can't help it. I kind of pitied them, but at the same time, I didn't wanna be around them, anymore . . . You know, before it happened to me. And . . . I don't have that many . . . you know . . . friends . . . to begin with, so to risk alienating them just so I could share my nightmares with them, well . . . Not something I wanted to do."

"Do you?" he asked. "Have nightmares?"

"No. At first, I just couldn't sleep. I'd have to shower for two hours every night and then . . . I guess Allen was kind of right. You do feel . . . dirty, and nothing ever seemed clean enough for me. I mean, it happened at his house, but after I came home and showered and shit, I threw out the towels. And then after I went to bed and woke up, I threw away my sheets and pillowcases. And it stayed that way for the next couple of weeks. I'd use the shit once, and I just wouldn't want to touch it again.

Everybody kind of knew there was something . . . off with me, but . . . no one ever really asked, and I never told."

"Till now," he added . . . somewhat hopefully. This could be the beginning of something . . . meaningful, or maybe she'd leave and never want to face him again, the only "witness" to a previously unknown crime.

"You can't tell anyone. I'm not shitting you; no one knows. What happens in Pennsylvania, stays in Pennsylvania. It was a long time ago, and I don't do that shit anymore. And, with my mom, she'd probably say I got what I deserved, anyway, and I really, really don't need to hear that. People have their perceptions of me, you know. And I like the way most people look at me these days. I'd really hate to have to leave because people, you know . . . talk. I mean, it's hard enough to keep my head up with a convict uncle, a shut-in grandma, and, well, there's no end of jokes about my mom and how many kids she has. Forget the fact that she was married when they were all born and they're all by the same man . . ."

He placed his hand flat against the door, trying to send some sort of comfort to her. "People are just dumb, you know. And . . . I wouldn't do that to you. That'd be really fucking low. Saying I wouldn't say something then goin' out and saying it, anyway. I don't get down like that."

She was quiet again, then he heard her draw in a deep breath and push it out. "Good to know. Now, if you'll kindly step away from the bathroom door, I'm gonna stand up, wipe off, zip up and wash my hands."

Part of him wanted to know how she knew he was just outside the door, but he supposed it had to be because of the shadows or something. "Right on." He rolled back to his previous position in front of the TV.

Water ran, the door opened, the light went off. "You know," she said, "you never struck me as the sentimental type."

Daniel scoffed, lightly scratching at the reddish-brown undergrowth between his chin and neck. "Who the fuck do you think you're talking to?"

"Apparently, a guy who likes roses," she smiled.

"Get the fuck out of here."

She laughed and disappeared on the other side of the curtain.

He chuckled to himself and tried to get back to work. "Nosy!"

Which brought him back to the present, three years after that fact. He'd told her more things about himself, she'd told him a few things about herself. He wasn't seeing anyone else; she wasn't seeing anyone else, yet neither one of them seemed secure enough to lay some type of . . . claim upon the other. On a rare occasion he'd have to introduce her to someone she hadn't already met, he'd simply refer to her as Mecca. And aside from a few . . . awkward occasions when he happened to stop by her new place of employment, and she attempted to give him a hard time, as she was apt to do in her old establishment, at least one of the employees would take the time to ask who he was.

"Is that your boyfriend?" they'd ask.

"That's Daniel," she'd laugh, saying no more on the subject.

Anytime he'd come close to making anything more out of the situation, he'd remember who he was, he remembered the things he'd done, and he remembered Alicia. He would never consider himself racist, he loved his mother, his sisters, his cousins, and his aunts more than anybody's business, but white women were just plain crazy, and he'd dare say over his 30+ years, they'd done him more harm than good. With the exception of his mother, they were loud, rude, selfish, conniving, self-absorbed, money-grabbing, ballbreakers. His mother had been a little on the loud side, but she was always good-natured, self-sacrificing and high-spirited . . . As his father had pointed out to him, kind of like Mecca.

Alicia, on the other hand, had been the epitome of everything he hated about them. If he were to be honest with himself, the only reason he "wanted" her was because she wanted him first. He didn't really have to do anything. He was so inexperienced back then, he mistook manipulation for consideration. Every move she made towards him brought her to her desired end. She was coming off a bad bit with some other guy and, basically, wanted a place to crash, food to eat and whatever booze/drugs she could lay her hands on. If she had to blow him every now and then, so what? If she had to let him fuck her once or twice, big deal. What she gave him was far, far outweighed by what he gave her.

Forget the free rent, the booze, smokes and . . . whatever else she wanted and he was stupid enough to buy. Not to sound sentimental, or sappy or anything, but what was the going rate for the human heart?

But, then again, that was all in the past when he was young, impressionable, and completely naive of the ways of the world. He was older and wiser, now . . . or, at least, he certainly hoped so. He couldn't say that he didn't feel sort of . . . "ruined" by all of it, though . . .

Since then, he'd basically steered clear of women in general, and possible romantic entanglements, altogether. Except with her, with Mecca. He kept getting confused. There were certain days he could look at her and feel completely drawn in, but there were other times when she'd say something or do something or just look at him the wrong way, his blood would run cold, his dick would go flat and his balls would recede.

Which reminded him of his hairline . . . His brother still had a full head of hair, his father still had a full head of hair, but somewhere along the way, his genes had gotten all screwed up, apparently. He wouldn't consider himself a vain man, but he refused to be seen in public without some type of head covering. And the one day Mecca knocked his hat off . . . not to be mean; she was only playing, but, he knew she had to have seen it, and he couldn't bring himself to face her till he'd gone to the bathroom, tied a bandana on under the hat, then put the hat, itself, back on.

She was laughing when she'd done it, but when he returned, she seemed somewhat somber and genuinely apologetic. "You can knock my hat off if it'll make you feel better."

She wasn't even wearing a hat . . .

Then there was the fact he'd put on about 30 pounds in the past three years. Between work, his family, and her, he was smoking more, which meant he got the munchies more, which meant he weighed more.

But the converse was true of her. Four years ago, she'd taken the notion to cut off all her hair, and she did. It looked just like a boys'; he hated it. Not that she didn't have a pretty face . . . girls just didn't do that sort of thing around here . . . especially not the black ones.

"You hate it, don't you?" She swept her hand through her non-existent hair, and for the first time since they'd become reacquainted, so-to-speak, she looked troubled. Not only had she chopped it all off; she'd bleached it blonde.

"No, " he shook his head trying to think of something else remotely positive to say.

"My grandma hates it."

"Well, who cares what she thinks? If you like it, that's all that's important, right?"

"I guess," she shrugged. "It'll grow back, anyway. I mean, it's just hair."

And it did grow back. She preferred to keep it curly, but when time and patience allowed, she straightened it and it reached just past her shoulders. Far longer than it had been when she'd first cut it. He hated to say it; he wouldn't try to change her in any way (except for the one thing she did change for him) but he liked it better straight. It just looked more . . . touchable. The lord knew that if he ever did decide to make a play for her, things would be awkward enough without getting his fingers caught in her hair.

But, if she could tolerate him and his "male pattern baldness," he was certain she would tell him what he could and couldn't do with her hair. And then there was the rest of her . . . how she could be so muscular, yet look so feminine was beyond him. Any fat she had on her was purely T and A, and she had both in amazing proportions, as he could clearly see in that short, denim mini and that almost see-through hippie top. She did love to wear white . . .

"You only think I'm a prude," he scoffed, continuing to price things behind the confines of the three glass showcases that housed the DVD latest releases, all the handheld systems and games, and the higher-end XBOX, PlayStation and Wii games.

"It's not just me."

"Yeah, well . . ."

"Let's examine the facts, shall we? You don't own any skin flicks, you don't download porn on the Internet, you don't read Playboy, Penthouse or any of that shit . . . You won't go to the tittie bars with any of your friends. You turn bright red if I just mention the word 'masturbation,' and you fly into a semi-blind fury if I say 'dildo,' 'anal beads' or even the word 'lube.' And despite the fact that you claim to buy, sell and trade games, systems, CDs and DVDs, you won't take in any adult movies, and you won't even order them if a customer requests them."

He watched her back through the semi-sheer fabric with mild irritation/amusement as she continued to alphabetize the VHS shelves. He hadn't asked her to do it; he'd simply mentioned that he was thinking of doing it a couple of days ago. She showed up today and just started moving things around. She'd only done two things he didn't approve of: mixing the Wrestling tapes in with everything else and putting the numbers before the letters. 101 Dalmatians went before 8 Mile and both of these were supposed to go before All About Eve. Which was just plain wrong. One-hundred and one began with an “O,” so it should be with the other O’s. Eight began with an “E,” so it should go with the other E’s. She was fit to fight him tooth and nail that numbers went before letters, but she finally conceded to him. “It’s your shop, after all. I’m just here to help.”

“So?” he asked.

“Don’t get me wrong. I respect the fact that you have morals and ideals, and you do your best to uphold them and stay true to yourself, but,” she peered over her shoulder at him.

“But what?”

“You’re a guy!” she laughed. “You’re supposed to be interested in that shit. The more naked women you can see in shortest period of time, the happier you should be.”

Daniel shrugged. “I don’t claim to be on some moral high ground or whatever, but this is a family-friendly type business, and you can’t have stuff like that out on the shelves.”

“I understand that, but what about for your personal use? Straight guys are supposed to like to look at naked women.”

“What’s the point of looking if you can’t touch ?”

She raised an eyebrow at him.

“It’s bad enough the real things get you worked up, and then refuse to follow through. But to torture yourself with hollow images of fake women . . . I don’t see the point in that.”

“Hmmm,” she turned back to her sorting and shelving. “Guess I never thought of it that way.”

“What about you?” he asked. “You’re an admittedly avid porn watcher. What do you get out of it?”

“Wet,” she shrugged.

He swallowed hard.

“It’s nice to know that even though I’m forced to live a celibate life, there’re plenty of people out there who still enjoy an entertaining and exhilarating sex life.”

“Entertaining,” he laughed.

“Not to mention educational. Half of the things I know about sex, I learned from watching porn.”

“And the other half?”

“Actually, one quarter from blind experimentation and one quarter from women’s magazines.”

“You lie!”

“What’ve I got to lie for? It’s just you here. Like I’m trying to impress somebody.”

He laughed, averting his eyes when she bent over to move a couple of videos from the lowest shelf to one of the upper ones. He’d already made three trips to the bathroom since she’d come in. He didn’t do anything with it; simply let it air out and cool down. But she was wearing red panties. His favorite color was black, but there was something about a woman in red.

He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath, finally putting the pricing gun down to again make a trip to the back of the store. The way those long, lean legs came together and seamlessly melded into that perfectly molded ass . . .

“Shit.” He knocked over a small stack of Game Cube games he kept on the end of the counter.

She stood and turned around. “Want me to help you with that?”

“No,” he answered a little too quickly. Besides the weight gain, there was another reason he liked to wear his clothes so baggy. Contrary to popular belief, not all white guys were hung like gnats. But, if she came too close, even a blind man could make out the silhouette of his “little soldier” at full attention.

She looked down at the mess that he’d made then back up at his face. Her eyes were honey-colored today. Sometimes they were hazel. Sometimes they were sapphire. Sometimes they were blue. And sometimes they were her natural, every day dark brown color. He found her natural eye color easier to take. The pupils were so dark it was difficult to tell where she was looking exactly. But with the honey ones, there was a clear delineation between iris and pupil, and one only had to look to know exactly what was on her mind. She had to have seen it, and instead of shrinking beneath her scrutiny, it seemed to swell in pride. It wanted her to see, which meant part of him wanted her to see.

She smiled at him. “So,” she said, “gotta go to the bathroom again?”

He felt his mouth go dry, his throat constrict. “No,” he finally croaked out.

“You know, it’s been over a month since I’ve had one. Cleaned my car out, washed all my shit, tossed all my lighters and ashtrays. If someone just met me, they’d never know I used to be a smoker.”

That had been the one thing he’d wanted to change about her. It was nothing personal. Being a former smoker, just the smell of cigarette smoke made him sick, and, unfortunately, she always seemed covered in it . . . till about a month ago. “Good for you,” he nodded.

She maintained her distance, but continued to stare, her weight shifting from one hip to the other, her upper teeth lightly gnawing on her lower lip. Offhandedly, he wondered if her lips were as soft as they looked and if her lip gloss was flavored. She took her eyes off him long enough to glance up at the wall clock over her shoulder, then once again focused her attention on him. “Half an hour,” she said.

It was 6:30. He locked the door at 7 and, unless there was a late-coming customer, he was out of here by quarter past. “Yep.”

“Guess I better hurry up, then.” She turned on her heels and again saw to her sorting.

He swallowed hard then tried to will away the growing tightness in his groin.

“Horny, little devil.”

“What!”

“That’s what they say.” She kept her back to him, her hands on the tapes, her eyes on the shelves. Her voice was cool and even, but there was something else . . . as if she held a secret she’d soon share with him. “They’re red, and the writing’s in black. The front says ‘Horny’ with one horn on each side, the left cheek says ‘Little,’ and the right cheek says ‘Devil.’”

He forced a laugh, trying to hide . . . whatever it was bubbling up inside him. “What? No tail?” he shifted himself in his pants, chortling lightly. “Devils are supposed to have tails.”

She stopped shelving. “I’ve got all the tail you could possibly want.” Then she started again. “If you want it, that is.”

The stack of new acquisitions went crashing to the floor.

“Do you?” she asked.

“Mecca . . .”

“No conversation necessary. It’s a yes or no question. Yes, I wanna take you to bed, or no, not really.”

Was he actually . . . panting? Man, maybe men really were dogs . . .

“I won’t get pissed if you say, no, you know? Like I’m not gonna start throwing things and trash the place or whatever. I just thought something needed to be said, and I was really hoping that you’d be the one to do it, but, you are a total prude, man.” She glanced over her shoulder and laughed. “I mean, I can’t ever imagine you saying, ‘Hey, Mecca, why don’t you come over here and sit on this cock?’ or anything remotely sexual, for that matter . . . which is probably why I’m so interested . . . or maybe curious is a better word . . .”

His racing pulse slowed, and his thoughts cleared. “So, you’re just fucking with me, I get it.”

“No, I’m serious. In all honesty, I haven’t let a man touch me in over five years.” She stood in profile, now, her eyes to the ground, her head tilted to the side. “Partially, because of . . . you know . . . and the other well . . . I mean, I’m a girl, I can get ass anytime I want. But, as I’ve said, there are things I just don’t do, and spreadin’ my shit all around town is one of them.” She turned completely towards him. “Yeah, I talk a lot of shit, but when it comes to put out or get out, unless it’s you, I’m getting out.”

He laughed, yet again, trying to think of a way to talk himself out of this increasingly odd situation.

“I mean, this shouldn’t come as a complete surprise . . . should it? I mean, your dad loves me. He . . . surprised the hell outta me. Like, no offense or anything, but people are pretty uptight around here and, I fully expected him to freak out when I showed up at your mom’s wake . . . I mean, I didn’t even wanna go. I didn’t belong there; I’d never even met her, but your dad was like . . .”

Was she . . . tearing up?

“I’ve never had anybody be that accepting of me straight out the gate, you know. People always wanna hate on me and start senseless shit . . . and, I don’t know. It’s just hard sometimes . . . not knowing who you can trust, and who’s just trying to use you and . . . But your dad was totally cool. I mean, he’d never even met me, and he was puttin’ his arm around me and shit, showing me family pictures, and then when I said I had to go, he was like, ‘No. Sit down. Talk to Terri.' And I’m sitting there in the front on the family’s side, trying not to have a total panic attack because I think at any second somebody’s gonna start being really rude to me, and I’m gonna get pissed off, and everything’s gonna get totally fucked up even though I don’t want it to because this has nothing to do with me everything to do with your mom, and . . .” She drew in a deep breath and pushed it out. “Sometimes I get really nervous and forget to breathe. Isn’t that stupid?”

He felt himself slowly returning to normal, and he, too, took a deep breath.

“When it comes down to it, even though I really hate it, and I do my damndest to try to hide it; I’m just country girl. Yeah, I’m black. Yeah, I’m educated. Yeah, I got to go to Europe for a couple of weeks one summer, but the moment I sit back and relax that country drawl just comes spillin’ out my mouth, and I think if my professors could hear me, they’d be so ashamed. But then I think, I’m not in that stage in my life any more, am I? I’m supposed to have taken their teachings and integrated them into my daily life as it applies to me.” She looked at him and laughed. “So what if I say ’y’all’ and drop my G’s?”

He looked up at the clock again. Somehow, it was 6:58.

She followed his gaze and came to the same conclusion. “Where did the time go?” She sighed and wiped at the corners of her eyes. “Guess I’ll go. I think I’ve made both of us equally uncomfortable enough for today.” She straightened the top shelf one final time, then walked over to the window seat to retrieve her fur-lined jacket and chenille gloves.

“Don’t put those on just yet”

She looked over at him as she slipped one arm inside her coat, then the other. “Why not? It‘s time for you to close, and time for me to go home. Alone.” She stifled a laugh. “Don‘t you wish you could see into the future, so you could avoid entirely embarrassing situations like that. I mean, despite what I’ve said, I‘m sure you think I‘m some sort of tremendous whore, now, with red devil panties, and wouldn‘t condescend to fuck me with the proverbial ten-foot-pole, let alone your actual dick. Don‘t you just hate the smell of desperation?“

Things were getting out of his control again. He wanted her to stay. He wanted to take her to bed. He wanted to see if her underwear actually said what she said they did. And he wanted to know if that was flavored lip gloss or just regular lip balm.

“It’s seven,“ she said. “You should lock up.“

But that wasn’t who he was. He wasn’t good with women or with words. He was good at haggling. He knew how to run a business. He could sing and play guitar, but everything else was beyond him.

It was ridiculous! She’d done the hard part; she’d made the proposition. He just had to say “Yes.“ What was so hard about that? Saying “Yes?” Admitting need? Declaring want? Exhibiting desire?

She slid on her gloves then walked over to the door.

Alicia still haunted him. Even when she’d said “yes,” everything else about her demeanor said “no.” But Mecca was practically begging him for it, and what would she really get out of it?

She had her own place. She managed her own restaurant. She paid her own bills. She didn’t do drugs. From his understanding, she had quite an expansive liquor cabinet, . . . So there really wasn’t anything she could get from him that she couldn’t get for herself, unless you counted his cock.

“Hey.”

Her hand was on the door handle. “Hey what?”

“Stay.”

She felt her knees about to go out. “What?”

“Stay for a minute. We’ll uh, leave together.”

“Oh?”

He slowly made his way to the door, reaching over her shoulder to slide the sign from Open to Closed. “You’ve . . . never been to my place, have you?”

“No. You’ve never invited me.”

He placed his bare hand over her gloved one, inhaling deeply as his nose came dangerously close to that space between her neck and her ear. “Wasn’t sure what you’d think if I did.”

Mecca laughed. “I’d think you wanted me to see your place.”

“That all?” he asked.

“What else?”

He moved her hand from the door handle to rest in the palm of his own hand. “Nothing ulterior?

“Please!” she laughed. “From someone as prudish as you? You probably would’ve spent the whole night sitting on the couch with a pillow in your lap.”

“Yeah,” he scoffed.

She turned to face him, her hand still in his. “I’ll bet I could drop my pants, shove my cooch in your face, dripping wet and ready to go, you’d turn bright red, take hold of my pants, pull them back up, give me a tap on my ass, tell me I need to ‘Quit it,’ and then send me on my way.”

“I’m a gentleman,” he argued.

“Gentlemen don’t get busted for B&E, possession, or reckless endangerment.” She smiled as his face visibly paled . . . as if he weren’t pale enough already. He’d told her about the B&E from his high school days, but Terri had told her about the possession charge (roughly 10 years old) and his dad, of all people, gave her the heads up about the reckless endangerment charge, which happened when he was 16. He was drag racing (of all things) with some other dumb kid, he took a turn too fast, flipped his car, nearly broke his neck and had his license revoked till he was 18.

She brought his hand up to her mouth, running his index finger along her lower lip. She felt him shudder as she drew the digit into her moist interior, licking it from base to tip before releasing it with a playful nip. She watched as his eyes glazed over and the flesh of his face went completely flush.

She then pressed her hips again him and smiled. “I can guarantee that I will always know more about you than you’ll know about me.”

“And why’s that?”

She relished the rough quietness of his voice and rewarded him with a quick lick to the tip of his index finger. “I have more resources than you do. You can ask people things about me, but unless you hear it from me, you‘ll never get the whole truth. Privacy is my middle name.”

“I thought it was Deidre,” he half laughed, half smiled.

God, she loved his eyes: bright, shining, deep, playful. Then there was the curve of his lips, the arch of his eyebrows, the point of his nose, the chubby cheeks and that cute, little chin. He had a total baby face, which sent her motherly instincts into overdrive, making her want to coddle and coo over him, then there was the baser beast inside of her that wanted nothing more to swallow him whole and feel him fill her slit with his scorching spend.

“Daniel?”

“Yeah?”

“We need to go.”

Three minutes flat. It took him three minutes flat to lock up the shop, get her to his car, drive ten miles up town, unlock his door, drag her inside, then shut the door behind them. She was on him the instant they were inside. Touching and teasing, gripping and groping, feeling and fondling, licking, kissing, and sucking any and all exposed flesh.

It had been too long, and her first and last encounter with a man had left her lacking . . . unless you counted a pain in the ass and a bad taste in her mouth. Seeing how eagerly he responded to her, she had nothing but the highest of hopes for Daniel. His hair was feather soft, his lips silky smooth, his hands somewhat uncertain, but strong, and his entire body just seemed to melt into hers, perfectly molding to her contours, jutting into her recesses, resting on her hills and valleys. His touch was electric, his scent intoxicating, and the feel of his warm breath blowing across her already fevered flesh . . .

She closed her eyes and forced it back down. She wanted him before she experienced that particular pleasure.

“It stinks in here.“ She kept her lips latched onto to his throat.

“What?“

They bumped into walls, stumbled over furniture, tripped over odds and ends left on the floor. She had the feeling he was trying to fumble around for the lights, but she didn’t like the light.

“Too many scented candles,“ she said. “All blending together. It stinks.“

“Sorry.“

She stripped off his coat and tossed his baseball cap to the side. “Just trying to cover up another scent, right?” Beneath the aromas of vanilla, cinnamon, pumpkin pie, apple pie and raspberry was the overly sweet, slightly musty scent of herb, and it clung to Daniel as a second skin. The exotic scent sent her back to a different time when she was younger, freer, less jaded, “It’s all right. I don’t mind.“

She felt his hand at the nape of her neck, giving the tight curls a slight tug, urging her to tilt her head back as his mouth planted itself in the hollow of her throat. She took the opportunity to slip out of her own coat and kick off her shoes as he blindly led her to some unseen destination. It didn’t really matter where, as far as she was concerned. As long as she ended up on a flat surface of some type, him above her, behind her or beside her, she could bring them both to their desired end . . . As long as she didn’t have to be on top. She hated being on top.

She found the fasteners to her skirt, undoing them, then letting it fall to the floor.

At last they reached an open doorway, and he guided her to what she assumed was his bed. Made or unmade, she didn’t know, but the moment his mattress met her back, she wrapped her legs around him and pulled his shirt off over his head.

“Hey . . .” He twisted and turned in her grasp, trying to keep the garment in place.

“Don’t be shy.” She kissed his right cheek. “I wanna see all of you.”

He shook his head. “I don’t care how dark it is in here. That’s just not something anyone wants to see.”

“I want to see.”

“Why? So you can go to the bathroom and throw up?”

She gave him a light slap. “That’s mean.” She reached up under his shirt and grabbed his left pec, her thumb ghosting over the erect nipple. “There’s nothing wrong with man-boobs. If they’re part of you, I’ll take ‘em.”

“Right.”

“C’mon . . . take it off. You’re gonna get all sweaty.”

“Mecca . . .”

“What if I . . . take mine off first?”

He still seemed unwilling to comply.

“Hey,” she slipped her hand under his chin, tilting his head upward, “I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll show you what I like by doing it to you, if you show me what you like by doing it to me.”

He huffed lightly. “It’s been so long I don’t think I remember what goes where . . .”

“It’s like riding a bike--”

“Without a seat?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“I’m uh . . . kind of . . . big.”

“So you‘ve put on a few pounds . . .”

“No, uh, big big. Down there.”

She followed his glance, then felt herself color slightly. “Oh. Um, okay.”

“Some girls have trouble with that . . .”

“So, you’ll have to loosen me up a little first . . . or a lot.”

“So . . . you’re not gonna back out?”

“I never back out of anything.”

“No?” He grabbed hold of her hand and forced it to wrap around him.

She drew in a short, sharp breath, then pushed it out. Her hand barely fit around him at the base, and she doubted very seriously she’d be able to take all of him inside her this time around. He was a good ten inches . . . if not twelve. “What do they feed you white boys?”

He shrugged. “Chicken.”

“Well, I’ve seen a few before you . . . mainly due to figure drawing, but I can honestly say they couldn’t have eaten much chicken if any at all.”

His eyes fell, and she watched as he reached behind him, trying to unhook her ankles.

“Now, hold on, I didn’t say we were gonna call the whole thing off. I just . . .“

“Scared?“

“Concerned,“ she corrected him. “I probably wasn’t too clear about this in the beginning, but . . . uh . . . you’re number 2. There was . . . you know, that guy, and now you. I just . . . have to get in the right mindset, you know.”

At that point he came down and kissed her, softly, slowly, purposefully on the lips.

After she caught her breath, and her eyes regained their focus. “Wow.”

He gave a slight shrug as if to say, no big deal. “I feel like I’m crushing you.”

“No,” she shook her head. “You’re fine. You’re . . . very fine.” She gave him one slow stroke from the base of his shaft to the tip of his manhood, through the fabric of his track pants.

“Shit . . .”

She rolled them over, relieved him of his shoes, socks, and pants, then positioned herself between his parted thighs.

He swallowed hard.

She slid her hand over, around, then under the plain blue cotton of his boxers. The man beneath her hissed.

“Can I make you feel good, Daniel?” She felt his stomach muscles twitch. “Can I suck your cock and lick your balls then rub ’em between my tits?”

He looked down at her, eyes heavily lidded, his own musky scent over-powering the artificial aromas of the scented candles. “You are a dirty, dirty girl.”

“Nuh-uh. I told you. I’m just a horny, little devil trying to have a little fun.”

“Mecca . . .”

She licked up the front of his boxers, then took the tip of his clothed erection into her mouth.

“Damn girl . . .”

The boxers came off and the oral pleasures continued. “Tell me you like it.”

“What?” His eyes were closed; a dopey, but endearing smile etched across his face.

She took one, long lick up the underside of his shaft, then circled the tiny opening in the head with her tongue. “Tell me you like it,” she repeated. “Tell me how good it feels and what you want me to do to you.”

“Do,” he panted, “to me?”

“Tell me what you like,” she whispered.

“Like?” Dear Lord in heaven was she actually going to put that beautiful body of hers in his unsteady hands?

He felt a hand creep up his left thigh, over his stomach, under his T-shirt, around his left nipple and along the side of his neck.

“I want you to be on top,” she said. “Men are supposed to be dominant, and women are supposed to be submissive . . . if they want to, of course. You know, submit. It’s something they choose to do; not something they’re forced into doing.”

Force? his mind idly echoed. Was he a wicked stepsister? An evil vizier? A jealous queen?

No. He was the lovelorn beast smitten with a too-charitable beauty.

“Daniel. Say something. I’m starting to feel a little ridiculous down here.”

He looked down at her and grabbed a handful of her hair. It wasn’t rough at all. Or tangled or brittle. It was quite silken and smooth. When he pulled lightly, the curl straightened, and the instant he released it, it recoiled, returning to its natural state. His hair was curly when short; wavy when it had some length to it. But it didn’t do anything like hers.

“Come up here.” He held onto the back of her head as she made the short climb to meet him eye-to-eye.

“What?” Her voice held a smile, her eyes bright with challenge.

He brought her down to him: her lips to his mouth, her tits to his chest, her legs along his thighs, her cloth-covered core to his exposed groin. He probed her with his tongue, caressed her with his hands and stimulated her clit with the rocking of his hips.

“Daniel . . .”

He slipped his hand down the back of her panties, squeezing her right butt cheek, then sending his finger along her crack. She visibly tensed as he neared her asshole, but he coaxed her into a more relaxed state with a few lingering kisses and some carefully chosen words.

A few minutes later, her panties were off, her shirt had been discarded, her back was against his mattress, and her legs were spread wide, her slit slick with her own moisture. Her clit was erect and receptive, and what little hair she had, had been shaved into the shape of an arrow.

“Don’t make me wait,” she pleaded. “I can take it. Make me take it all.”

“Is that right?” he asked her, finally ridding himself of his cumbersome top.

“Yeah.”

“Well, you’re gonna have to wait just one minute more.” He rolled away from her and reached for his nightstand. He certainly hoped they were still good.

“Aren’t you presumptuous,” she laughed. “Or have you been fucking some other filthy bitch in this stinkhole?”

He gave a light chuckle. “Never fucked a chick up the stinkhole.”

“And you never will,” she proclaimed. “Unless . . .”

He glanced over his shoulder at her, unopened and unexpired Magnum in hand. “Unless what?”

“You marry me,” she said matter-of-factly. “I guess I’d sort of owe it to you at least once . . . seeing as how you‘d be forsaking all other women.”

Daniel shrugged. “Eh. I don’t think I’d want to.” He tore off the top of the packet and secured the latex in the appropriate place.

“No?” she asked.

He rolled back over to her, assuming his former position above her, then lowering himself to press a wet kiss in the crook of her neck. “You said you didn’t like it, right?”

“So?”

“Why would I wanna do something I know you don’t like?”

“Curiosity,” she shrugged.

“Fuck it. Ass-banging is for homos and porn stars . . . You’re not a porn star, are you?”

She stuck her tongue out at him. “No.”

“Then it’s settled.”

She spread her legs to receive him; he positioned himself at her entrance. “Just go slow, okay? I’m pretty sure my hymen got torn to shreds last time, but with my luck, who fucking knows.”

He slipped his head inside her, pressing his lips to hers. “It’ll be all right.”

She looped her arms around his neck. “Yeah.”

In his younger, vainer days, he once took a notion to time himself. He spent all of 18 minutes staring at a digital alarm click, mindlessly thrusting as the LED display marked off one minute after the next. If the female beneath him enjoyed herself, he honestly couldn’t say. He only knew it took 18 minutes from entrance to exit, and he was sweaty, tired and sore once it was over.

Of course, 20 minutes later, he was ready to go again. Such is the insistence of youth . . .

With Mecca, he didn’t know how long he lasted. Not that there wasn’t a clock in the room, there were just . . . more important things on his mind: the fine sheen of sweat on her skin, the dazed look in her honey-colored eyes, the bounce of her breasts as he pounded himself inside her, the scent of her musk as it mingled with his own, and the sound of her panting and moaning, whimpering and sighing, pleading and shrieking, her head thrown back against the mattress, her nails digging into his triceps, and her heels indelibly pressed into his lower back.

Indeed, she took him all, but there was no force involved. Initially, there did seem to be some type of resistance: not a barrier or a blockage, just a very tight squeeze. Then, as if by magic, he seemed to find some hidden treasure deep within her, a tiny bump that, when properly scratched, produced a preponderance of liquid that greatly aided his endeavor, allowing for wonderfully tight slides that increased both their pleasure immeasurably.

“Mec-ca . . .” His hips finally ceased their motions, his body slumping against hers.

She continued to grind against him till her entire body shook with the force of her orgasm, her arms and legs wrapping tightly around him till her tremors ceased and she could, again, breathe normally.

“Ow!” He felt a sharp pinch at the juncture between his neck and right shoulder. “Did you just bite me?” he laughed.

She shook her head. “Couldn’t control myself.”

“It’s not a vampire bite, is it?”

“Fuck no. I hate blood. I just felt the need to bite down on something, and your neck was right there. Sorry.”

He rolled off to her side, careful of the contents of the used condom, and ran his hand over his neck. “I guess I’ll live.”

Mecca shrugged. “You can bite me back if it makes you feel better.”

“Nah. I’ll just come on your face after you fall asleep.”

She punched him in the “injured” shoulder. “Eww! That is beyond gross. Cream pie is not on the menu. Duck or swallow. Those are the only two options in my book.”

“And you said I’m a prude,” he laughed.

She rolled to his side and kissed his left nipple. “And you finally took your shirt off. It’s not so bad,” she smiled. “So you’ve got a bit of a gut and some man-boobs. Big deal. You‘re still fuckin‘ cute.”

He hoped the room was dark enough to hide his blush.. Not that he was blushing. Men didn’t blush, after all.

“And forget horse. You’re hung like a fucking rhinoceros. If you’d been the first guy I’d slept with, I guarantee you, I never would’ve done it again.”

“Didn’t hurt, did it?”

“A little, at first. Like I was stretched too tight, then . . .”

“Magic.”

“Magic?” she laughed.

“Everything just fit,” he said.

“Yeah, but I’d hardly call that magic. It kind of hurt, then it just stopped. The strain went away, and it was just . . .”

“Magic,” he said again.

“What is it with you and magic? I know you don’t believe in that shit. That’s for little girls who believe in fairytales and all that. Or little boys with black wands, red capes and top hats.”

He wasn’t trying to be sentimental. Romance wasn’t a language he had any sort of handle on. Every poem he knew had the word “fart” in it, and the only cards he dealt with were either playing cards or sports related. But . . . he did do what he did, and he did say what he said.

He grabbed hold of her hand, lightly brushing his thumb over her knuckles. “Or,” he said, “two people who’ve had a really shitty time finally find each other, and suddenly, things don’t seem as bad as they used to.”

He kept his eyes focused on her face, and was mildly amused and, somewhat embarrassed, that it was not dark enough to hide a blushing face. “You’re ridiculous,” she finally said.

He shrugged. “You gonna . . . sleep here tonight?”

“Do you want me to?”

He shrugged again. “If you want.”

“You don’t snore, do you?”

“No one’s ever told me I have.”

“Guess I’ll stay, then. For tonight anyway.”

His hold on her hand tightened. “Promise not to turn into a pumpkin?”

“Only if you promise not to slip any peas under my mattress.”

He pulled his hand away, and finally moved to dispose of the used condom. “Smartass.”

She simply smiled as her head hit the pillow and her eyes drifted shut.


END