Maneater (7 page)

The smile on my face could not be erased with a Brillo pad. “No way,” I said, cheesing ear to ear. “I haven't been a size six since high school.”

“I want to make you feel like you're in high school again. Let me please you, Seven,” Jagger said. “I know you don't know me, not yet, anyway. All I ask is that you trust me.”

Unwrapping my sarong, Jagger laid it over the sand.

“Lie down,” he said, guiding me to a horizontal position, parallel to the waves washing ashore.

“Ooh, nice. I love your punany. You have a beautiful pussy, Seven. Your shaft is thick, and it's protruding,” he said, lightly kissing my clit. “Yes, she's excited for me. I like that.” He kissed me again.

Oh my gosh,
I thought.
What am I submitting to?

Lightly grazing my pubic hairs with his teeth, he massaged me, softly stroking my nipples.

“Is this okay?” he asked.

“Yes,” I agreed, breathing rapidly.

Spreading my outer lips, he knelt between my legs, twirled my hairs with his fingers, then his tongue. Licking his fingers, Jagger teased my clit. I wanted to scream.

“Relax,” he said. “Don't hold it in. Let it out. Release yourself. That's why you're here. We will never recapture this moment. Let go for me, Seven. It's okay to be vulnerable with me. I won't hurt you.”

I heard a few women screaming in the distance, giving me permission to join them. “Yesss!” I yelled, releasing the energy.

Jagger placed his wet, hot lips on my shaft, then whispered, “ABC,” licking the capital letters. With each letter, he passionately grazed my clit.

“Oh, God,” I moaned, cuming just a little with each stroke.

Light flutters and gentle, subtle licks pleasured me. The sea breeze swept against my skin, nudged my hair. The moonlight stared into my eyes when Jagger traced the letter
E
, ending with that middle stroke, then passionately sucked my clitoris into his mouth.

I swear, by the time Jagger got to
Z
, easing his middle finger inside of me, stroking my G-spot while sucking my clit, all I could do was cry a river of tears, which cleansed my spirit.

O
vercast.

Dark clouds swept down on the Windy City. Rain poured down in the middle of the workday, drenching the unsuspecting, the ill prepared. A funnel of darkness swirled, skating along North Michigan Avenue, snapping umbrellas inside out, the sound of microwave popcorn frantically approaching its peak. Dirt, debris, leaves, rain stuck to the five-thousand-dollar, hand-stitched, tailor-made suit cloaking my body; an unsavory residue permeated my skin, making me want to slither out of my clothes, shed like a snake.

Parting the pack, racing across East Chestnut Street from Water Tower Place, I darted into my office building, bypassed the line of people waiting to buy tickets to gain access to the Hancock Observatory, located on the ninety-fourth floor of the John Hancock Center.

Shit! Where'd that storm come from, man?
I thought, plucking dirt from my jacket. Weather conditions around the world were becoming less predictable with each passing year. First, a tornado in Brooklyn, now one in Chicago.

Blame the man-made wind tunnels on the politicians, the city planners, and the architects that created this eclectic monstrosity after the Great Chicago Fire of 1871, which killed hundreds of people. Sometimes a mass of people had to die to give birth to innovative ideas. Or sometimes just one person needed to be laid to rest to make the world a better place for another. For me, that one person was my father.

After the fire, Chicago was resurrected. After I moved out of my dad's house, I was reborn, wishing my father would've died shortly after I'd left so I could've returned home to my mother. He hoarded her all our lives; I was an unwelcome kid in his home.

Refusing to soak in childhood trauma, I curtailed my negativity, instructing my secretary to call my driver. Then I asked, “Has Ms. Stephens called?”

“No, sir. Not yet,” Amanda replied. “But Ms. Belvedere phoned. Said if your offer still stands, she'd love to join you at tonight's game.”

Took her long enough to respond. I knew she'd call me. I wondered what Zena was like in bed. For certain, she wouldn't become Mrs. Maxamillion until I found out. The sooner she gave in, the better.

“Is my new house near ready for inspection?” I asked Amanda.

“They're on schedule, sir. Three more days. The floor plan for your new home is fabulous. Ms. Stephens is going to love it. My favorites are the rooftop Jacuzzi and swimming pool. I hope you don't mind me asking, but why did you let your fiancée make all those reception plans, then build her an estate, where you plan to surprise her with an all winter-white wedding reception?”

“Because I can afford to.”

All was not in vain. The only thing that had changed was my bride. My grand plans had somewhat backfired. But with no contact information, for all I knew, Seven could be gone for good. I didn't want to be alone. I didn't want to live with Danté, and I had been kept from my mother all my life. I would perish if I had to live without a wife.

Amanda smiled, then asked, “Is it true? Are your football and basketball players going to be there?”

“Yes, the players will be there. Is Ms. Belvedere's contract ready?”

“It's on your desk, sir,” Amanda said, with a smile.

Perfect.
The contract was a test. One, to see if Zena would sign it without reading it first, a sure sign not to hire or marry her. Two, to determine her level of competence.

Closing my office door, I removed my clothes, placed everything, including my underwear, in a laundry bag, then showered. After easing on a gray tailored suit with hairline purple vertical stripes, a hand-stitched lavender shirt, no tie, I stepped into my gray ostrich shoes.

I sat at my desk, reading the final contract. My lawyer had added in a few clauses, like: “Grantor agrees to pay Grantee the sum of one hundred thousand dollars, $100,000, per month.” The following clause read, “This is a performance-based contract whereby Maverick Maxamillion Incorporated, the Grantor, reserves the exclusive right to rescind at its discretion, without cause at any time, and the Grantor shall be held harmless under all circumstances, without obligation for restitution of any kind to the Zena Belvedere Agency, the Grantee, if the stipulated outcome, as determined by the Grantor, is not achieved.”

I'd taken advantage of most of my female clients by allowing an “out” clause for me while obligating them to perform.

Amanda's face popped up on my office iChat. Mr. Maxamillion, your driver is here. Don't forget your cashier's check for Ms. Belvedere so she can finalize your wedding plans.

Check? More like a surprise gift of fifty grand to Zena basically to plan her own wedding. All the work for the real reception, I'd done.

“Perfect,” I said, leaving my office immediately. Passing Amanda's desk, I said, “Have Danté pick up Ms. Belvedere from her home.”

I had to scale back on spending time with Danté. I'd devised a plan to keep him busy and out of my space for a while.

“Okay, sir. Enjoy the game,” Amanda said, smiling.

Amanda was a sweet girl. Sharp. Efficient. Obedient. Perky. Attractive. Twenty-one, straight out of college. A bit too young according to my personal preference. Girls that young weren't women yet. I wanted only grown folks in my bed.

My driver was waiting for me outside my office. As I slid into the backseat, I noticed that the dark clouds hadn't dissipated. The inclement weather might work to my advantage, forcing Zena to stay the night at my place.

I called Danté.

“Yes, Mr. Maxamillion,” he coyly answered.

I chuckled at his tone, then asked, “Where are you?”

“I'm on my way to Ms. Belvedere's.”

“Good,” I said. “Flirt with her. Make sure to give her your business card with your cell number, and tell her you'd like to take her out. You know how we do it. You take care of her, and I'll take care of you,” I lied.

“Will do,” Danté said. “Anything else?” he asked, with enthusiasm and extra bass in his voice.

“Yeah, when you drop her off at the stadium, you're free to go home. She's going home with me,” I told him, sure my mixed messages would fuck him up.

“You know what? Fuck you! I helped your ass when—”

I interrupted, “Tell me a thousand fucking times so I don't have to hear it again?”

Danté hung up.

I glanced out the window and saw that we were passing my dad's house. My mother was sitting on the wet porch. What had caused her to be outside after the rain?

I told my driver to back up to the house. After getting out of the car, I stood at the fence. “I love you, Ma.”

My mother looked up at me for a moment before standing. She brushed off her blue floral print dress, and came to me. As she hugged me over the three-foot fence, she said, “I love—”

“Get your ass in this house!” my father yelled at her from the porch, holding the screen door open.

I held her tight as she struggled to free herself. “Mama, why?” I cried.

Slam.
The screen door closed.

My father disappeared into the house. I knew I had only a few moments before that punk would shoot at me again.

Getting in the car, I instructed my driver, “Let's go.”

As he drove through the streets of Chicago's South Side, I wished my tears could bleed my father's DNA from my body.

“Asshole!” I yelled, kicking the passenger seat. “I hate you! I swear that motherfucker gon' make me
kill
his ass.”

M
y ego wanted Zena butt naked on her knees, sucking my dick. My pride wanted a wholesome wife. My heart wanted Seven. My dick wanted to be buried six feet deep in Danté's ass. Complications with all three. Zena I could never love the way I loved Seven. Seven I wouldn't be faithful to the way I could be faithful to Danté. Danté, one word,
unacceptable
. He could never give me the kids I desperately craved.

After parking in front of Soldier Field, my driver opened my door. Staring up at the stadium, I was proud of my accomplishments. Adding kids would be the icing. Now that I was thirty, it was time to start a family. Have a few of my seeds trampling in my new backyard, learning to play football on the field, play tennis on the court, shoot hoops indoors, or hit a few rounds of golf on our private eighteen-hole course.

I said to my driver, “Wait here for me until after the game.”

Danté texted. B there shortly…She's hot…I want to fuck her in her ass.

Wait for my permission, I texted back.

Don't need it.

I replied: Ur right…after u drop her off, ur fired.

Love in my life went more than it came. How was I supposed to give Seven what I never had? When I first met her, I rescued her from the college rat race and made her a model. Putting her on the cover of my promotional brochures, on Web site advertisement banners, and on television commercials for my Bentley dealerships should've been an incentive for her to stay sexy. There was something special about Seven that I hadn't expected. She was so unique that I had to make her my wife.

Seven was the first woman to make me fall deeply in love with her. I still couldn't figure out how she'd done that shit. I hated being vulnerable.

Seven didn't give up her body on the first few dates. She wasn't a virgin, but she told me she was tired of casual lovers. She was saving herself for someone worthy. That someone happened to be me. Seven was a challenge.

I called Danté.

“Everything is good,” he answered.

Thought so. “One more thing. I'll personally meet Ms. Belvedere when you pull up to my VIP space, and I'll escort her to the owner's suite.”

“No problem. You got it, man,” Danté said, driving up. A fake smile was plastered across his succulent lips.

I opened Zena's door, then complimented her as she got out of the car. “Excellent choice of attire, Ms. Belvedere.”

A tangerine beaded halter exposed the right amount of lickable cleavage, a shawl draped her naked shoulders, wide-legged pants caressed her perfectly round ass, and three-inch open-toe heels made her two inches shorter than me. Zena would fit in flawlessly with the women and wives in the suite. Like Seven, she was not allowed to socialize with the athletes.

As Danté drove away, he texted, Do NOT fuck her. She's mine!

Possession was ten-tenths of my law. “Put this in your purse,” I told Zena, handing over the envelope with the check.

A wide smile preceded a lingering stare. “What's this?” she asked.

“Your compensation for the wedding. Finish the details for me, and I'll give you a PR contract.”
And this big dick
. “Did you bring Seven's laptop?” I asked, hugging Zena's waist. She didn't pull away.

“Gosh. I left it in the car, with Danté. Remind me to give it to you when he picks me up,” Zena said, with a warm smile.

Good.
Once again, Danté had done his job well.

As we entered the owner's suite, a smile wide enough to block my view of the entire football field crossed Zena's face. “This view of the fifty-yard line is unbelievable,” she said.

“Believe it, like I believe in you,” I said, introducing Zena to my other guests. “Seven had an emergency trip. Zena is taking over until Seven gets back,” I lied.

The smile disappeared from Zena's face. “Nice meeting you both,” she said, walking away.

Approaching Zena, I asked, “What was that about? Is that how you're going to treat my clients?”

“Clients?”

“Yes, they are team owners, too,” I scolded, grunting between my teeth.

“Seven is my friend. My best friend,” Zena said, teary eyed. “I miss her.”

Women were so fucking emotional. I hated that shit.

“I haven't heard from her since she left. Her trip wasn't an emergency. Why did you lie? You forced her to leave, didn't you?” she said loudly.

“Lower your voice,” I commanded. “She's my fiancée. I love her, too. That's why I want you to take over. Come. Let's watch the kickoff.”

The game couldn't hold my undivided attention, not with Zena's head leaning on my shoulder. I'd put it there to help her relax. She hadn't resisted. With another win on the record, I accompanied Zena to my limo.

“The weather is bad. Stay at my house. My driver will take you home in the morning,” I said.

“Your house? Where will I sleep?” Zena asked.

“Wherever you'd like,” I told her, hoping she'd make the right decision and the first move.