Sample Sunday

Sample - ONE QUICK KISS (Sexy Short Stories) 99 cents

G.O.A.T.

All men fantasize. But not all were blessed enough to have their fantasy become a reality. I just happened to be one of the chosen few, I guess. Because there she was, standing over me, nearly naked, wearing only a lavender-colored satin bra and matching V-string panties. 

“LonDale?”

Her voice was like my Mama’s homemade rolls fresh out of the oven, warm, soft, good all the way through.

I did my best to resist a bite.

She repeated my name. Again, I didn’t respond.

“Look at me a moment, LonDale.”

In my large, callused hand was David Remnick’s book on Cassius Clay, King of the World. Sonny Liston had fallen in their title bout, and so had Cassius’s old ways of thinking and behaving. The Nation of Islam had a grip on him. Cassius was morphing into Muhammad Ali on the pages right before me.

I was a hardcore student of the sweet science; everything about the sport fired my pulse. Boxing had saved me from a life of poverty and hopelessness on the streets of East Orange, NJ, a block over from Grove Street, the rumbling of the railroad at my back door. Boxing had fed my hunger, literally. From half gallon jugs of orange juice stretched into gallons with water, never Tropicana, but Acme, FoodTown, PathMark, the cheap store brand always. From unhealthy dry cereal loaded with sugar and without the benefit of milk. From hand-me-down blue jeans with the knees faded yellow, to corduroy pants that kept me toasty in the winter. Boxing had saved me from all of that. Boxing was my savior, and I respected it as such.

And Ali in particular was one of my personal favorites.

He’d abstain for months leading up to his fights. The lover in him knew he couldn’t be both effectively, couldn’t be a lover and a fighter.

“Look at me, LonDale.”

Despite my better judgment, I looked up.

Bowflex waistline and abs, healthy hips, an apple of an ass that brought tears to men’s eyes, strong and thick legs and thighs. Full breasts you usually could only see in movies with Mr. Marcus involved or on Dr. 90210.  And that was just her body. She had the smoothest chocolate brown complexion I’d ever seen. Pure candy bar dreams. Long tresses of hair that kissed her shoulders. Most of it hers. Her smile matched her voice: warm and soft. Her lips were full, shaped like a heart. Large eyes and she’d mastered the art of makeup application to accentuate them. She’d gone with a pink champagne glimmer as her base, bronze brown for her lids, aubergine brown as a contour, and deep matte brown as eyeliner. The “smoky eye” look. I knew it well because her eyes were a weakness of mine, and I’d asked.

She said, “Good. Finally got your attention.”

I looked her in the eyes.

That wasn’t smart. Like I said, her eyes weakened me. Or strengthened me, you could argue, too. I considered that possibility as I adjusted the sudden erection in the crotch of my shorts. Weakened or strengthened, I guess it depended on your perspective.

Her smile was a half mile from being wicked. To add to it, there was a sexy little mole right above her lip. I swallowed, but kept looking at her. Through that smile, she asked, “That book good, LonDale?”

I managed, “Yes.”

“Must be. You barely even looked up for my lil’ striptease. I’m offended.”

I hadn’t missed anything.

There was a wooden chair in the room. She’d turned the chair into a makeshift stripper pole, held on to the back of it as she bent, twisted, danced around it. Then she’d let her dress slide down her thick body and kicked it away.

I’d read the same sentence in my book over and over as she danced.

I said, “I want to finish this book. There are some valuable insights in it. I take this boxing business seriously. You said you understood.”

She pouted, and then bit into her lip. “That book can’t wait a bit? I’m feeling some kind of way…”

My pulse. I could feel it, pounding.

I said, “Training. Big fight coming up. We shouldn’t put ourselves in this position. Sex requires too much energy. Energy that should be saved for the fight.”

I thought of the opponent on the other side of the twenty four square foot ring, covered in a thin film of sweat, ready to destroy. Destroy or be destroyed. Preparation was key. I fought hard against a lack of preparation. Knew that could mean death. Literally. Boxing was that serious of a sport, the threat that real.

Despite my words, she took two steps toward me, and then stopped.

No more than a foot separated us. I felt myself sinking.

I eyed her in her satin bra, V-string panties. We all have our weaknesses.

Trina Martin was mine.