Fox & Hound: Part Four
https://interracialerotica.net/erotica/articles/176/1/Fox-amp-Hound-Part-Four/Page1.html
By Tracy Ames
Published on March 9, 2010
Fox & Hound: Part Four
The last thing Monica, an Afro-American woman, wanted was a last night pub crawl with people she hardly knew until she was introduced to Scott, a tall, devilishly stunning man. As the night quickly progressed they find themselves exploring their sexual limits....
The last thing Monica, an Afro-American woman, wanted was a last night pub crawl with people she hardly knew until she was introduced to Scott, a tall, devilishly stunning man. As the night quickly progressed they find themselves exploring their sexual limits....
Fox & Hound: Part Four
“I’m going to New York this weekend.” Monica announced, plopping on the countertop to watch Scott shave. It had quickly become her favorite pastime.
“Really?” he drug the razor under his chin.
“Yeah, I want you to come along.”
“Work or pleasure?”
“Work.”
“I’ll pass. I have to work.” He raised, toweled off and left her sitting alone. He’d had his fill of snobs weeks ago but Monica insisted on trotting him from pillar to post at least five times a week. Though completely exhausted and seeing no end to his suffering, he wasn’t giving up the fight. Monica would have to attend some of these functions alone. The gawking women were one thing but the men made the ordeal unbearable. He could no longer stand idly by and loath them in silence. Sooner or later the dam would break sending waves of disdain spilling forth, killing any villagers in its path.
Monica rushed and clung to his bare back. “Do I have to beg?”
Unmoved, he peaked over his shoulder and met her flashing doe-eyes. “Yes, but you’re wasting your breath. I’m not going,” he pulled a tee shirt over his head, kissed Monica and went to fetch a cup of coffee with her close on his heels. “I have registration today and I’m working tomorrow—which leaves Saturday and I’m sure you’re leaving tomorrow night.”
“I’ll book a later flight and we can leave together. Or you can fly in Saturday evening.” Her tone was genuinely sincere. “One gathering and we’ll spend the rest of the time alone, just…us.”
She wasn’t trying to get her way, she was truthful. She wanted him there, but why? Scott wasn’t blind to her ever changing affection for him, but he was weary of its depth. Though she was head and shoulders above Courtney in the emotional department, he was hesitant to express his feelings. This hesitation was the residue, the last traces of a bitter protracted relationship…and he hated it. Monica shouldn’t have to suffer for Courtney’s mistakes.
“You really want me there, don’t you?” Scott asked.
“Yes.”
He rubbed his eyes and sighed. “I’ll fly out Saturday evening.”
“We have a very important dinner Saturday night,” she realized she’d been holding her breath and fidgeting with her sleeve, a nervous habit she hadn’t out grown. “Can you be there by eight o’clock? I wouldn’t ask unless it were important. I’ll send a car for you.”
Where were the “three pleases” which normally accompanied her persuasions? “Send a car to pick me up. I’ll be there by six.”
Monica smiled but it wasn’t a victorious smile. It was a thank you. Her past relationships faired no better than Scott's. At least he’d been in love; the most she could produce was a deep ‘like’ for her prior men. Her drive always seemed to get in the way and the one she had felt more than a twinge of ‘like’ for, let her down. She was determined to see this one through. Scott was different, he was dependable, and most importantly, worth the trouble.
“Thanks, I’ll book your flight and reserve your car.” She kissed his cheek and went to dress for work.
*****
“Oh my God. I don’t think I’ve ever disliked someone so much in my entire life.” Scott said in mix of frustration and laughter to the sully admissions counselor. “Lady, I’m applying for the School of Arts and Sciences, the Department of Sociology and Criminal Justice. Tell me, why would I be required to sit for the MAT? You have my Graduate Record Examination Aptitude scores. I have a 3.6 in my area of specialization and two courses in criminal justice theory,” he tried valiantly not to swear. “My application is complete. All I need you to do is…” out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of a tweed jacket. “Dr. Greene.” He called, a dark skinned distinguished older gentleman turned around grinning.
Dr. Emory Greene had been Scott’s statistics professor and longtime mentor. Consequently, he’d also been the motivation behinds Scott’s reemerging interest in the field. Dr. Greene rarely invested time in his alumni but Scott interest him. He assumed the only reason a clever white man with his pick of universities would choose to attend Clark Atlanta or any historically black institution would be to piss his parents off….which Scott had done, fantastically.
Before Scott managed two words, Dr. Greene pulled him into his office and helped him sort out his dilemma, which, as it turns out, wasn’t a dilemma. He simply needed to deposit the application and leave. He and Dr. Greene spent the rest of the afternoon talking over their plates at a local café. Dr. Greene assured Scott that he was a shoe in for a slot; there was no need to worry.
“Are you still dating…” he grappled for a name. “Cory?”
“You mean Courtney. No, we’re not together.”
“Good, I didn’t like her. She thought too highly of herself.”
Scott laughed. “She was vain.”
“She was delusional.”
“You’re right about that.”
Dr. Greene watched Scott’s smile fade. He’d known Scott since his freshman year and he was hiding something. “Tell me about your new lady. I know you have one.”
Scott’s forehead furrowed. “How did you know?”
“Please,” He leaned back and smiled. “You can’t keep anything from me. By the looks of it, she’s keeping you busy. I haven’t seen you in weeks.”
“Monica is…” he thought for a moment. “Monica is Monica. She’s special.”
Special, Dr. Greene contemplated. Scott was in love. “She’s not going to get in the way of your studies, is she?”
Scott shook his head. “No, she’s far too busy to think about me. If anything, I’m the distraction.” He chuckled.
“Bring her by. I’d like to meet her.” Dr. Greene said letting him off the hook with an indifferent yet still admonishing stare.
It was half passed six when Scott remember he’d promised Mr. Fitzpatrick he’d come to dinner. This time, Monica couldn’t be blamed for his ruined evening. It was his fault for not consulting her before accepting. It was Monica’s turn to rush across the city, speed dressing in the back of a Town Car. Spending time with Mr. Fitz, as he preferred to be addressed, wasn’t the problem. Scott enjoyed his stories and company immensely. It turned out they shared a love of history and William Blake. No, it was Mrs. Fitz’s constant surveillance he abhorred.
Dinner was perfunctory: long discussions about area politics and the fundraiser. The conversation deviated only when the topic of vintage trains came up and the women ran for their lives. Monica believed Mr. Fitz saw Scott as the son he never had. His only son, Bradley had been a rake and a drunkard who’d squandered his inheritance nine months after his eighteenth birthday and succumb to serous of the liver before his thirty first. Sad, a man with all the money in the world couldn’t help his own son overcome his demons.
In walked Scott. Who neither asked nor expected anything of him other than a pleasant conversation and real pit bar-b-que.
Monica and Mrs. Fitz’s relationship often left Monica on a mental stupor and extended conversations were only undertaken after a cocktail of Kettle One and prayer. It was obvious she was lonely and had little in common with her hoity-toity contemporaries because she took the keenest interest in every infinitesimal detail of Monica’s day-to-day life. What had been entertaining was now a chore. On average, she’d pop up unannounced in Monica’s office at least twice a week, which affectingly sent everyone including Sharon scrambling makeup kits and mirrors—anything to ensure her visit was pleasurable.
She would enter the office like the Grand Duchess herself and insist Monica have lunch with her. Like housetraining a naughty puppy, Monica swatted her nose until she understood one lunch plus their weekly business meeting was quite enough; dinner and drinks were always welcomed. Social climber or not, Monica had to set ground rules and didn’t need the interruptions. She’d stood up to Mrs. Fitz and lived to tell the tale. In Mrs. Fitz’s eyes, they were best friends.
Now, it was time to find Sharon a husband. After Sharon’s short lived marriage to the biggest jerk of the century, she all ears. Mrs. Fitz was a self avowed matchmaker and Sharon was her latest endeavor. Sharon would have her pick of Atlanta’s (or anywhere else Mrs. Fitz’s bony fingers poked) finest—nothing was too good for her protégé.
“Why do I feel like a doll?” Sharon asked one evening after Mrs. Fitz left.
“Because you are one.” Monica replied rightfully. “A little Black doll.”
As Scott and Monica were leaving the dinner, Mr. Fitz slipped Scott the keys to their NYC townhouse insisting they make themselves at home. He thanked him for his generosity and said goodnight. There was no denying this man; his gestures came from his heart. It wasn’t until he was in the car that he realized the trust Mr. Fitz had in him and Monica. No, he didn’t care for Mrs. Fitz but he’d make it a point not to visibly cringe in her presence any longer.
Later that night, Monica lie on Scott’s chest listening to his rhythmic breathing—wanting to tell him, needing to tell him but she was frightened. For the first time in her life, she was afraid to speak her mind. What if he didn’t reciprocate? What if he let her down? There were a couple of false starts, and then she chickened out. Maybe he felt them because he stirred and asked what was wrong.
“Nothing,” she replied quietly.
“Do you need another blanket? You’re shivering.”
“No.” The last hopes of declaration faded with her voice.
******
The next day was a wind storm for both of them. Scott went into the station early to call in a favor: he needed to be out of the station no later than 4:00pm make his flight. Case was in the middle of a crossword puzzle and Scott barely received a nod of recognition before being asked to supply a four letter word for poultry.
Meanwhile Monica tied up loose ends for the Fitzpatrick’s event and headed out of the door. “Joy, please be sure Mr. Harrison’s flight is booked and his conformation is sent to him before you leave. He will also need a car and ensure the driver has directions to the hotel and museum,” Monica rattled off to her senior assistant while stuffing her portfolio into her briefcase. While she was addressing Joy, it was understood her junior assistant was to scribble her directives also, lest something fall through the cracks. “I’m not going to have time to drop off his invitation. Have a driver believe it to him doorman,” she swiveled to Sharon who was impatiently holding the door but turned again. “Keep your phone on at all times just in case I need you. KC should be calling—I’ll call her back when I’ve settled in. You know the drill. I expect you at the hotel by tomorrow morning—Lori will be your backup here in Atlanta.”
“Monica, come on. The car is waiting.” Sharon finally shouted and pulled Monica out of the doors.
As soon they were out of sight, their assistants buckled in relief but it was premature; Monica reappeared.
“You have Mr. Harrison’s numbers, right? Cell, home and station?”
“Yes, now go!” Joy, the only one who dared to raise her voice to Monica answered.
“Thanks,” She smiled nervously and scuttled off to the elevator. She hated rushing. It always seemed as though she were forgetting something. In the elevator, she racked her brain trying to think of what she was missing: dress, shoes, invitation, extra battery for her cell, hair and nail appointment. It was all in order but she couldn’t shake the feeling. Just as she was about to hyperventilate her phone rang.
“Hey pretty girl,” cooed Scott. His low baritone voice had the calming effects of a morphine drip: soothing yet addictive. “I left my tux in your closet but don’t worry, I circled back and took it home before I came in.” He could hear Monica breathe a sigh of relief. “Rough day?
“Much better now,” She hustled passed the security guard and crawled into the car. “We’re on our way to the airport.”
“Relax, you’ll be fine. Give me a call before you take off and when you arrive. I’ll try to give you a call tonight before you go to bed but if I don’t, then I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Thanks. I…” say it damn it! “I’ll give you a call from the airport. I…I have to go.”
Scott beamed a hopeful smile. She wasn’t fooling anyone. “Talk to you then.”
As promised, Monica called from the hotel. Sharon was across the hall and their assistants were a stones throw away down the hall. In the mad rush to catch her flight, she’d left Mr. Fitz’s keys with Scott. Fortunately, they still had reservations—not that she planned on staying. Besides the oversized European-style soaking tub and separate walk-in shower, the Premier Club Room was like any other monotone five star she’d visited: homey yet cold. And without Scott it seemed even colder.
She missed him dearly, there lying in bed. He was at the station, unreachable but she called anyway.
Hey, this is Scott. Sorry I missed your call. Leave me a message and I’ll call you back. Thanks.
She must have listened to his recording forty times that night.
“Really?” he drug the razor under his chin.
“Yeah, I want you to come along.”
“Work or pleasure?”
“Work.”
“I’ll pass. I have to work.” He raised, toweled off and left her sitting alone. He’d had his fill of snobs weeks ago but Monica insisted on trotting him from pillar to post at least five times a week. Though completely exhausted and seeing no end to his suffering, he wasn’t giving up the fight. Monica would have to attend some of these functions alone. The gawking women were one thing but the men made the ordeal unbearable. He could no longer stand idly by and loath them in silence. Sooner or later the dam would break sending waves of disdain spilling forth, killing any villagers in its path.
Monica rushed and clung to his bare back. “Do I have to beg?”
Unmoved, he peaked over his shoulder and met her flashing doe-eyes. “Yes, but you’re wasting your breath. I’m not going,” he pulled a tee shirt over his head, kissed Monica and went to fetch a cup of coffee with her close on his heels. “I have registration today and I’m working tomorrow—which leaves Saturday and I’m sure you’re leaving tomorrow night.”
“I’ll book a later flight and we can leave together. Or you can fly in Saturday evening.” Her tone was genuinely sincere. “One gathering and we’ll spend the rest of the time alone, just…us.”
She wasn’t trying to get her way, she was truthful. She wanted him there, but why? Scott wasn’t blind to her ever changing affection for him, but he was weary of its depth. Though she was head and shoulders above Courtney in the emotional department, he was hesitant to express his feelings. This hesitation was the residue, the last traces of a bitter protracted relationship…and he hated it. Monica shouldn’t have to suffer for Courtney’s mistakes.
“You really want me there, don’t you?” Scott asked.
“Yes.”
He rubbed his eyes and sighed. “I’ll fly out Saturday evening.”
“We have a very important dinner Saturday night,” she realized she’d been holding her breath and fidgeting with her sleeve, a nervous habit she hadn’t out grown. “Can you be there by eight o’clock? I wouldn’t ask unless it were important. I’ll send a car for you.”
Where were the “three pleases” which normally accompanied her persuasions? “Send a car to pick me up. I’ll be there by six.”
Monica smiled but it wasn’t a victorious smile. It was a thank you. Her past relationships faired no better than Scott's. At least he’d been in love; the most she could produce was a deep ‘like’ for her prior men. Her drive always seemed to get in the way and the one she had felt more than a twinge of ‘like’ for, let her down. She was determined to see this one through. Scott was different, he was dependable, and most importantly, worth the trouble.
“Thanks, I’ll book your flight and reserve your car.” She kissed his cheek and went to dress for work.
*****
“Oh my God. I don’t think I’ve ever disliked someone so much in my entire life.” Scott said in mix of frustration and laughter to the sully admissions counselor. “Lady, I’m applying for the School of Arts and Sciences, the Department of Sociology and Criminal Justice. Tell me, why would I be required to sit for the MAT? You have my Graduate Record Examination Aptitude scores. I have a 3.6 in my area of specialization and two courses in criminal justice theory,” he tried valiantly not to swear. “My application is complete. All I need you to do is…” out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of a tweed jacket. “Dr. Greene.” He called, a dark skinned distinguished older gentleman turned around grinning.
Dr. Emory Greene had been Scott’s statistics professor and longtime mentor. Consequently, he’d also been the motivation behinds Scott’s reemerging interest in the field. Dr. Greene rarely invested time in his alumni but Scott interest him. He assumed the only reason a clever white man with his pick of universities would choose to attend Clark Atlanta or any historically black institution would be to piss his parents off….which Scott had done, fantastically.
Before Scott managed two words, Dr. Greene pulled him into his office and helped him sort out his dilemma, which, as it turns out, wasn’t a dilemma. He simply needed to deposit the application and leave. He and Dr. Greene spent the rest of the afternoon talking over their plates at a local café. Dr. Greene assured Scott that he was a shoe in for a slot; there was no need to worry.
“Are you still dating…” he grappled for a name. “Cory?”
“You mean Courtney. No, we’re not together.”
“Good, I didn’t like her. She thought too highly of herself.”
Scott laughed. “She was vain.”
“She was delusional.”
“You’re right about that.”
Dr. Greene watched Scott’s smile fade. He’d known Scott since his freshman year and he was hiding something. “Tell me about your new lady. I know you have one.”
Scott’s forehead furrowed. “How did you know?”
“Please,” He leaned back and smiled. “You can’t keep anything from me. By the looks of it, she’s keeping you busy. I haven’t seen you in weeks.”
“Monica is…” he thought for a moment. “Monica is Monica. She’s special.”
Special, Dr. Greene contemplated. Scott was in love. “She’s not going to get in the way of your studies, is she?”
Scott shook his head. “No, she’s far too busy to think about me. If anything, I’m the distraction.” He chuckled.
“Bring her by. I’d like to meet her.” Dr. Greene said letting him off the hook with an indifferent yet still admonishing stare.
It was half passed six when Scott remember he’d promised Mr. Fitzpatrick he’d come to dinner. This time, Monica couldn’t be blamed for his ruined evening. It was his fault for not consulting her before accepting. It was Monica’s turn to rush across the city, speed dressing in the back of a Town Car. Spending time with Mr. Fitz, as he preferred to be addressed, wasn’t the problem. Scott enjoyed his stories and company immensely. It turned out they shared a love of history and William Blake. No, it was Mrs. Fitz’s constant surveillance he abhorred.
Dinner was perfunctory: long discussions about area politics and the fundraiser. The conversation deviated only when the topic of vintage trains came up and the women ran for their lives. Monica believed Mr. Fitz saw Scott as the son he never had. His only son, Bradley had been a rake and a drunkard who’d squandered his inheritance nine months after his eighteenth birthday and succumb to serous of the liver before his thirty first. Sad, a man with all the money in the world couldn’t help his own son overcome his demons.
In walked Scott. Who neither asked nor expected anything of him other than a pleasant conversation and real pit bar-b-que.
Monica and Mrs. Fitz’s relationship often left Monica on a mental stupor and extended conversations were only undertaken after a cocktail of Kettle One and prayer. It was obvious she was lonely and had little in common with her hoity-toity contemporaries because she took the keenest interest in every infinitesimal detail of Monica’s day-to-day life. What had been entertaining was now a chore. On average, she’d pop up unannounced in Monica’s office at least twice a week, which affectingly sent everyone including Sharon scrambling makeup kits and mirrors—anything to ensure her visit was pleasurable.
She would enter the office like the Grand Duchess herself and insist Monica have lunch with her. Like housetraining a naughty puppy, Monica swatted her nose until she understood one lunch plus their weekly business meeting was quite enough; dinner and drinks were always welcomed. Social climber or not, Monica had to set ground rules and didn’t need the interruptions. She’d stood up to Mrs. Fitz and lived to tell the tale. In Mrs. Fitz’s eyes, they were best friends.
Now, it was time to find Sharon a husband. After Sharon’s short lived marriage to the biggest jerk of the century, she all ears. Mrs. Fitz was a self avowed matchmaker and Sharon was her latest endeavor. Sharon would have her pick of Atlanta’s (or anywhere else Mrs. Fitz’s bony fingers poked) finest—nothing was too good for her protégé.
“Why do I feel like a doll?” Sharon asked one evening after Mrs. Fitz left.
“Because you are one.” Monica replied rightfully. “A little Black doll.”
As Scott and Monica were leaving the dinner, Mr. Fitz slipped Scott the keys to their NYC townhouse insisting they make themselves at home. He thanked him for his generosity and said goodnight. There was no denying this man; his gestures came from his heart. It wasn’t until he was in the car that he realized the trust Mr. Fitz had in him and Monica. No, he didn’t care for Mrs. Fitz but he’d make it a point not to visibly cringe in her presence any longer.
Later that night, Monica lie on Scott’s chest listening to his rhythmic breathing—wanting to tell him, needing to tell him but she was frightened. For the first time in her life, she was afraid to speak her mind. What if he didn’t reciprocate? What if he let her down? There were a couple of false starts, and then she chickened out. Maybe he felt them because he stirred and asked what was wrong.
“Nothing,” she replied quietly.
“Do you need another blanket? You’re shivering.”
“No.” The last hopes of declaration faded with her voice.
******
The next day was a wind storm for both of them. Scott went into the station early to call in a favor: he needed to be out of the station no later than 4:00pm make his flight. Case was in the middle of a crossword puzzle and Scott barely received a nod of recognition before being asked to supply a four letter word for poultry.
Meanwhile Monica tied up loose ends for the Fitzpatrick’s event and headed out of the door. “Joy, please be sure Mr. Harrison’s flight is booked and his conformation is sent to him before you leave. He will also need a car and ensure the driver has directions to the hotel and museum,” Monica rattled off to her senior assistant while stuffing her portfolio into her briefcase. While she was addressing Joy, it was understood her junior assistant was to scribble her directives also, lest something fall through the cracks. “I’m not going to have time to drop off his invitation. Have a driver believe it to him doorman,” she swiveled to Sharon who was impatiently holding the door but turned again. “Keep your phone on at all times just in case I need you. KC should be calling—I’ll call her back when I’ve settled in. You know the drill. I expect you at the hotel by tomorrow morning—Lori will be your backup here in Atlanta.”
“Monica, come on. The car is waiting.” Sharon finally shouted and pulled Monica out of the doors.
As soon they were out of sight, their assistants buckled in relief but it was premature; Monica reappeared.
“You have Mr. Harrison’s numbers, right? Cell, home and station?”
“Yes, now go!” Joy, the only one who dared to raise her voice to Monica answered.
“Thanks,” She smiled nervously and scuttled off to the elevator. She hated rushing. It always seemed as though she were forgetting something. In the elevator, she racked her brain trying to think of what she was missing: dress, shoes, invitation, extra battery for her cell, hair and nail appointment. It was all in order but she couldn’t shake the feeling. Just as she was about to hyperventilate her phone rang.
“Hey pretty girl,” cooed Scott. His low baritone voice had the calming effects of a morphine drip: soothing yet addictive. “I left my tux in your closet but don’t worry, I circled back and took it home before I came in.” He could hear Monica breathe a sigh of relief. “Rough day?
“Much better now,” She hustled passed the security guard and crawled into the car. “We’re on our way to the airport.”
“Relax, you’ll be fine. Give me a call before you take off and when you arrive. I’ll try to give you a call tonight before you go to bed but if I don’t, then I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Thanks. I…” say it damn it! “I’ll give you a call from the airport. I…I have to go.”
Scott beamed a hopeful smile. She wasn’t fooling anyone. “Talk to you then.”
As promised, Monica called from the hotel. Sharon was across the hall and their assistants were a stones throw away down the hall. In the mad rush to catch her flight, she’d left Mr. Fitz’s keys with Scott. Fortunately, they still had reservations—not that she planned on staying. Besides the oversized European-style soaking tub and separate walk-in shower, the Premier Club Room was like any other monotone five star she’d visited: homey yet cold. And without Scott it seemed even colder.
She missed him dearly, there lying in bed. He was at the station, unreachable but she called anyway.
Hey, this is Scott. Sorry I missed your call. Leave me a message and I’ll call you back. Thanks.
She must have listened to his recording forty times that night.
Fox & Hound: Part Four
“Monica?” Sharon asked across the salon floor, snapping Monica out of her daze. “Where’s your head? Wait, let me guess—Scott” she laughed. “Don’t worry. He’ll be here in a few hours. Damn, you two can’t stay away from each other.” Her giggle tapered when she saw Monica wasn’t amused. “What’s going on, girl?”
“What do you mean?” her voice was low and clipped.
“I’ve never seen you like this,” she went and sat beside her friend as the stylist removed her last hair pins and asked quietly, “You love him, don’t you?” Monica needn’t reply, her nail biting said it all. “What are you afraid of?” she caught a brief glimpse of tears when Monica turned to her.
“I’m afraid that he’ll hurt me and I won’t know how to put myself back together again.”
“Is that all?” Sharon grinned slowly. “That’s the risk we all run. I know Scott! You can trust him. He’s crazy about you. What’s it been? Three months you’re been seeing each other? Shit, you two are virtually engaged by today’s standards.”
Her laugh echoed off the stark walls. “You’re probably right.”
“I know I’m right,” she leaned back in the chair. “Now, I could do with another glass of champagne.
“You better slow down. Mrs. Fitz has a dated lined up for you. I hear he’s good-looking and quite well off.” Monica said proudly—glad she wasn’t in Sharon position. Mrs. Fitz was batting zero with Sharon’s prospects. She all but guaranteed Grant Ellis would be the last match.
“I haven’t heard anything terrible about him,” she shrugged. “He’s reserved.”
“Which means he’s a freak in bed.” Monica pointed out.
“He’s a banker and a benefactor of the performing arts.”
“Which means he’s into role play.”
“He’s a polyglot and travels a lot.”
“Which means he’s gonna have your ass speaking in tongues in different time zones. Girl, I like him already.” Monica closed her eyes and went to her happy place.
Scott looked up from the sunk full of dish to the wall mounted clock, 3:00pm…thirty more minutes to go. Just as he finished the last plate, the alarm went off. His heart sank. Please be a kitten in a tree. Please be a kitten in a tree.
Case swung the kitchen door open. “Sorry to do this to you, buddy. We have a call.”
Scott tossed the towel aside and raced for his gear. “What is it?” Please be a kitten in a tree. Please be a kitten in a tree.
“It’s a restaurant fire. Dunwoody needs backup, its spread to the adjacent businesses. I’ll get you out of here as soon as I can,” Case answered then yelled to the other men. “Let’s go!”
Scott geared up and tried calling Monica but the call went directly to her voicemail. Damn it! He tried Joy and Sharon but there were no answers. Shit, I’m never going to make it on time. He made one last frantic call to Mr. Fitz and climbed on broad. He hastily spelled out his predicament and called his doorman before the sirens went off. There was no way he was disappointing Monica even if it meant calling in a favor.
Mr. Fitz was more than happy to help. He sent his car to Scott’s apartment to retrieve his tux, luggage and invitation, and then to wait at the station for Scott’s arrival. Meanwhile Mrs. Fitz contacted NetJets and had them on standby as well as their driver in NYC. It was the most excitement they’d had in months!
Monica slid the lip gloss wand across her lips and puckered. It was after six o’clock and Scott was nowhere in sight nor had he called. His plane must be in the air, she reasoned. No need to panic just yet. She busied herself and vowed not to watch the clock.
By the time the trucked pulled into the station, Scott’s equipment and gear was completely off and he raced to Mr. Fitz’s car. “Move!” he shouted to the driver without so much as a hello. It was a short flight and if all went as planned, he’d catch Monica en route. He called her but her phone was off. He tried Sharon, the assistants and the hotel. Nothing. Shit!
“Grant’s downstairs. I asked him to wait in the lounge.” Sharon zipped her gown, a black flowy Chanel. “Where the hell is Scott? He should’ve been here by now. It’s almost seven.”
Monica called the car service. The driver informed her that he’d waited for over an hour but Scott never appeared. She called the airline; he never boarded the plane. Her world stopped, only for a few seconds, but in those few seconds all she could hear was her heartbeat thundering in her ears, and when it finally started moving again that’s when the hurt poured in. Her hand still resting on the receiver, she composed herself for Sharon benefit. There was no sense in ruining both of their evenings.
She went to the mirror and admired herself. Her gown was a dazzling shade of champagne with flashes of brilliance. Exquisite beading adorned its fitted crisscross strapless bodice. Soft flowing chiffon created a long lean silhouette which gracefully draped from the empire waist to the floor. Scott would’ve loved it. She smiled to her reflection and summoned one last smile and called to Sharon. “We’d better go. We don’t want to keep Grant waiting.”
Grant was as Monica pictured: Tall, ruggedly handsome in a Clive Owen kind of way. His tux was expertly cut showing off his discriminating taste. He introduced himself and Sharon almost melted and he couldn’t take his eyes off of her. He was polite, articulate and charming and not at all uneasy with the idea of escorting two ladies instead of one. He and Sharon filled the time on the drive over with nonstop talking. There was an instant connection. Monica gave them their space, her thoughts wandered back to Scott and why he’d stood her up.
Meanwhile Scott was in a race against time. By the time he’d showered and dressed onboard, the plane was landing. Realizing they’d missed them at the hotel, the driver wisely drove straight to The Museum of Modern Art where the cars were lining up.
“I can’t sit here,” the driver announced pulling up to the curb. “If she’s here then she’s already inside. I’ll take your bags to the hotel. You have my number; call me when you’re ready.”
“Thanks!” Invitation in hand, Scott rushed from the car.
Monica tucked her arm into Grant’s and the walked into the grand atrium.
“I’ll take it from here,” Scott said to Grant and placed his hand on the small of Monica’s back. “Hey pretty girl. I hope you didn’t think I’d disappoint you.”
Monica’s eyes lit up in a way they hadn’t done since she’d arrived. “Of course not,” she rolled her eyes at Sharon’s “bullshit” cough. “I knew you’d make it.” She quickly introduced Grant and they made their entrance.
Though fatigued from his shift and harrowing flight, Scott couldn’t imagine not doing it again…if for nothing else than seeing the reaction on Monica’s face. Dinner was spectacular, company and conversation was relaxed and pleasant—not at all stuffy as he’d expected.
Sharon and Grant left shortly after dinner under the pretense of going for coffee. Monica, however, was in her element. She schmoozed with the snobs, made the contacts she’d come for, sealed two unexpected deals and turned her attention to Scott. She stood and watched him. He sparkled and captivated everyone he spoke with. It was his ordinariness which endeared others. What you saw was what you got. No BS or airs. Scott 24/7, take it or leave it.
He came and led her unto the dance floor. They danced one arm around the other while the other lie clasped together them. “Sorry I was late.”
“What happened?” she asked.
“We had an alarm minutes before I was planning to leave. I tried calling you but your phone was off.”
“I turned it off while I was in the salon…” then it dawned on her. “and I forgot to turn it on. Well, way didn’t you all Joy or Sharon?”
“I tried but I couldn’t get through.”
“You should’ve kept trying.” She teased.
His nose wrinkled and he spoke as though he were explaining the theory of relativity to a Neanderthal. “I was a little busy battling a fire—a big fire with lots of scary flames. I needed to focus on the task at hand because contrary to popular belief: I’m flammable!”
She snickered and her worries faded into the warmth of his chest. “It doesn’t matter. I’m glad you’re here.”
“I’m dead on my feet but I would’ve have missed being here with you for the world.” The hope in her upturned eyes broke his resistance and his words tumbled forth but stop just shy of disclosure. “I missed you.”
******
Sharon half expected Grant to refuse her offer to spend the night, but he accepted. Where had the offer come from? She never moved this fast. She’d asked a man she hardly knew to spend the night…with her…alone in her room. On what level of horniness had the request seemed a reasonable? Very very horny level was the correct answer. Now she lay in bed, covers clenched under her chin, listening to the sound of the shower in the next room. He was handsome, what else could she do? It wasn’t everyday she met someone like him and had an instant attraction.
Why not do it? It’s only for one night. I’m in New York, she made her case. No one’s going to find out. I may never see him again. I’m getting mine! Her hand moved down between her parted thighs, she was already wet and before long she was masturbating. Her fingers rhythmically circled her clit, her breathing increased as the thought of her secret liaison with Grant brought her closer and closer to orgasm. So distracted, she failed to notice Grant, towel-clad, watching her from the doorway.
He was tempted to watch her cum, but she caught him looking.
Oh God, She was mortified and prayed for the earth to swallow her whole—bed and all. She attempted to offer an excuse but he smiled slowly in response and moved closer until he stood over her in silence. Awkward! Thinking it couldn’t get any worse, it did. He removed the covers, exposing her naked semi-masturbatory body frozen in debilitating shame. Kill me, just kill me. She begged as he examined every inch—every flaw—every pound of her, imagined or other. Now, in her moment of humiliation, going to the gym didn’t seem like such a nuisance.
Leaning over, his hand soothed her hair and he gave her a long sensual kiss, showing her how much it turned him on to see her like this. As he kissed, her hand moved up his glutes, but he pulled away. This time he wanted to make her cum, to help her finish what she’d begun. “Come here. I want to see how wet you are.” He moved to the foot of the bed and beckoned her to him. Naturally she obeyed. He gave her a wicked grin and knelt in front of her, his wandering hands left no part of her surveyed. His small butterfly kisses on her legs, knees, and inner thighs left nothing unkissed.
Sharon's head swam. His lips ignited every pore they touched.
“Are you afraid of me?” he gently parted her thighs.
Maybe. “No,”
“Good,” he kissed her pussy. “There’s no need to be afraid. I’m not going to fuck you. You have my word. I’m going to eat you. You can watch if you’d like or lay there and enjoy. Understood?’
Sweet Sacks of Suga’, YES!! “Okay,” she croaked, wanting him to take her long, hard, any way he pleased. But he took his time. She felt a finger slowly drift up her slit. He kissed her knees, obviously enjoying how aroused she’d become. He was so close to her, she felt his hot breath on her lips, and then his finger teased her shallows and used her wetness to circle her clit. Sharon cried out as he rubbed in silence; her sounds of gratification played in their ears. “Please lick me!” she repeated with a plea in her tone. Suddenly, she felt his tongue, warm and wet, exploring between her lips; licking, tasting, teasing, drinking from her. “Fuuuck!” she came.
“Damn, I could stay down here all night.” Her juices dripped from his tongue as he sucked her lips clean. He parted her legs wide; her fingers ran through his hair, pulling his head in closer. He pulled away. “Sharon, your cum taste so damn good. I don’t think I’ll be able to let you go.” He fingered her to orgasm again.
“Goddamn, you don’t have to let me go!” she held his head in her hands, his intense sapphire eyes stared back at her. “It’s all yours.”
He licked his lips then provocatively sucked each…and every…one of her fingers. “Say it again.”
“Grant, I'll scream it from the rooftop. It’s all yours. I’ve never had a man…Ooohhh!” she cried as his tongue flicked her clit before he continued gorging. “Oh my God!!”
Just then Monica and Scott were returning from dinner and overheard the tell-tale sounds of Sharon having an orgasm. “I needed to talk to her but maybe I’ll wait until tomorrow.” She entered the room.
“That might be a good idea.” Scott closed the door.
Back in the room, Sharon held on to headboard for dear life. She was now riding his face—more or less being held captive by his tongue and suckling mouth. He sucked until she shook, convulsed, screamed, spoken in tongues and eventually came so hard Monica heard her from across the hall.
“Give it a minute,” Scott urged removing his tux. The air was still as they listened for more raucous.
None came and Monica threw on her robe and hurried across the hall with Mr. Fritz’s keys. She knocked and Sharon came to the door looking as though she’d been in a cage match, and lost. “Should I even ask?”
Sharon pulled her robe closed and stepped into the hallway and lowered her voice. “Girrrrl, I think that man swallowed my ovaries.”
“Dang, was it that good?”
Sharon’s face went hard as stone. “Yes, it was that good.”
“Well, I came to give you the keys to the townhouse, but I doubt you’ll be needing them.”
“No,” she tossed back to shattered remains of her hairdo. “I’m checking out tomorrow—I’m going to Grant’s.”
“Whatever,” Monica returned to her side of the hall. “You’d better keep his ass around long enough to find your ovaries. Goodnight and check your voicemail.”
“What?” Scott asked as Monica walked through the door.
“Nothing, just talking trash.” She hung her robe in the closet and stretched out along side Scott. “She’s checking out tomorrow so we have the townhouse to ourselves.”
He decided it was now or never. “Kiss me.”
She gave him a quick peck on the lips.
“No. A real kiss,” he turned her over onto her back and leaned over her. “Don’t look away.” They scanned one another; their eyes, their noses and lips, very detail. Gradually, they filled the space between them until their lips gently touched. He cupped her face tenderly and his tongue found hers. She held the side of his neck and surrendered to a sensation she’d never allowed herself. He softly sucked her bottom lip and recaptured her mouth. She returned his affection with quiet passion.
Finally braking for air, he placed his forehead on hers, “Monica, I love you.” The air left his lungs. To his horror, Monica stared back at him blankly in all-pervasive silence. “Please don’t say anything you don’t mean. I’m sorry; I had to tell you how I felt.”
“No, don’t apologize,” she steadied her tone. “I love you. I’m not afraid anymore. I love you. I mean it.”
“What do you mean?” her voice was low and clipped.
“I’ve never seen you like this,” she went and sat beside her friend as the stylist removed her last hair pins and asked quietly, “You love him, don’t you?” Monica needn’t reply, her nail biting said it all. “What are you afraid of?” she caught a brief glimpse of tears when Monica turned to her.
“I’m afraid that he’ll hurt me and I won’t know how to put myself back together again.”
“Is that all?” Sharon grinned slowly. “That’s the risk we all run. I know Scott! You can trust him. He’s crazy about you. What’s it been? Three months you’re been seeing each other? Shit, you two are virtually engaged by today’s standards.”
Her laugh echoed off the stark walls. “You’re probably right.”
“I know I’m right,” she leaned back in the chair. “Now, I could do with another glass of champagne.
“You better slow down. Mrs. Fitz has a dated lined up for you. I hear he’s good-looking and quite well off.” Monica said proudly—glad she wasn’t in Sharon position. Mrs. Fitz was batting zero with Sharon’s prospects. She all but guaranteed Grant Ellis would be the last match.
“I haven’t heard anything terrible about him,” she shrugged. “He’s reserved.”
“Which means he’s a freak in bed.” Monica pointed out.
“He’s a banker and a benefactor of the performing arts.”
“Which means he’s into role play.”
“He’s a polyglot and travels a lot.”
“Which means he’s gonna have your ass speaking in tongues in different time zones. Girl, I like him already.” Monica closed her eyes and went to her happy place.
Scott looked up from the sunk full of dish to the wall mounted clock, 3:00pm…thirty more minutes to go. Just as he finished the last plate, the alarm went off. His heart sank. Please be a kitten in a tree. Please be a kitten in a tree.
Case swung the kitchen door open. “Sorry to do this to you, buddy. We have a call.”
Scott tossed the towel aside and raced for his gear. “What is it?” Please be a kitten in a tree. Please be a kitten in a tree.
“It’s a restaurant fire. Dunwoody needs backup, its spread to the adjacent businesses. I’ll get you out of here as soon as I can,” Case answered then yelled to the other men. “Let’s go!”
Scott geared up and tried calling Monica but the call went directly to her voicemail. Damn it! He tried Joy and Sharon but there were no answers. Shit, I’m never going to make it on time. He made one last frantic call to Mr. Fitz and climbed on broad. He hastily spelled out his predicament and called his doorman before the sirens went off. There was no way he was disappointing Monica even if it meant calling in a favor.
Mr. Fitz was more than happy to help. He sent his car to Scott’s apartment to retrieve his tux, luggage and invitation, and then to wait at the station for Scott’s arrival. Meanwhile Mrs. Fitz contacted NetJets and had them on standby as well as their driver in NYC. It was the most excitement they’d had in months!
Monica slid the lip gloss wand across her lips and puckered. It was after six o’clock and Scott was nowhere in sight nor had he called. His plane must be in the air, she reasoned. No need to panic just yet. She busied herself and vowed not to watch the clock.
By the time the trucked pulled into the station, Scott’s equipment and gear was completely off and he raced to Mr. Fitz’s car. “Move!” he shouted to the driver without so much as a hello. It was a short flight and if all went as planned, he’d catch Monica en route. He called her but her phone was off. He tried Sharon, the assistants and the hotel. Nothing. Shit!
“Grant’s downstairs. I asked him to wait in the lounge.” Sharon zipped her gown, a black flowy Chanel. “Where the hell is Scott? He should’ve been here by now. It’s almost seven.”
Monica called the car service. The driver informed her that he’d waited for over an hour but Scott never appeared. She called the airline; he never boarded the plane. Her world stopped, only for a few seconds, but in those few seconds all she could hear was her heartbeat thundering in her ears, and when it finally started moving again that’s when the hurt poured in. Her hand still resting on the receiver, she composed herself for Sharon benefit. There was no sense in ruining both of their evenings.
She went to the mirror and admired herself. Her gown was a dazzling shade of champagne with flashes of brilliance. Exquisite beading adorned its fitted crisscross strapless bodice. Soft flowing chiffon created a long lean silhouette which gracefully draped from the empire waist to the floor. Scott would’ve loved it. She smiled to her reflection and summoned one last smile and called to Sharon. “We’d better go. We don’t want to keep Grant waiting.”
Grant was as Monica pictured: Tall, ruggedly handsome in a Clive Owen kind of way. His tux was expertly cut showing off his discriminating taste. He introduced himself and Sharon almost melted and he couldn’t take his eyes off of her. He was polite, articulate and charming and not at all uneasy with the idea of escorting two ladies instead of one. He and Sharon filled the time on the drive over with nonstop talking. There was an instant connection. Monica gave them their space, her thoughts wandered back to Scott and why he’d stood her up.
Meanwhile Scott was in a race against time. By the time he’d showered and dressed onboard, the plane was landing. Realizing they’d missed them at the hotel, the driver wisely drove straight to The Museum of Modern Art where the cars were lining up.
“I can’t sit here,” the driver announced pulling up to the curb. “If she’s here then she’s already inside. I’ll take your bags to the hotel. You have my number; call me when you’re ready.”
“Thanks!” Invitation in hand, Scott rushed from the car.
Monica tucked her arm into Grant’s and the walked into the grand atrium.
“I’ll take it from here,” Scott said to Grant and placed his hand on the small of Monica’s back. “Hey pretty girl. I hope you didn’t think I’d disappoint you.”
Monica’s eyes lit up in a way they hadn’t done since she’d arrived. “Of course not,” she rolled her eyes at Sharon’s “bullshit” cough. “I knew you’d make it.” She quickly introduced Grant and they made their entrance.
Though fatigued from his shift and harrowing flight, Scott couldn’t imagine not doing it again…if for nothing else than seeing the reaction on Monica’s face. Dinner was spectacular, company and conversation was relaxed and pleasant—not at all stuffy as he’d expected.
Sharon and Grant left shortly after dinner under the pretense of going for coffee. Monica, however, was in her element. She schmoozed with the snobs, made the contacts she’d come for, sealed two unexpected deals and turned her attention to Scott. She stood and watched him. He sparkled and captivated everyone he spoke with. It was his ordinariness which endeared others. What you saw was what you got. No BS or airs. Scott 24/7, take it or leave it.
He came and led her unto the dance floor. They danced one arm around the other while the other lie clasped together them. “Sorry I was late.”
“What happened?” she asked.
“We had an alarm minutes before I was planning to leave. I tried calling you but your phone was off.”
“I turned it off while I was in the salon…” then it dawned on her. “and I forgot to turn it on. Well, way didn’t you all Joy or Sharon?”
“I tried but I couldn’t get through.”
“You should’ve kept trying.” She teased.
His nose wrinkled and he spoke as though he were explaining the theory of relativity to a Neanderthal. “I was a little busy battling a fire—a big fire with lots of scary flames. I needed to focus on the task at hand because contrary to popular belief: I’m flammable!”
She snickered and her worries faded into the warmth of his chest. “It doesn’t matter. I’m glad you’re here.”
“I’m dead on my feet but I would’ve have missed being here with you for the world.” The hope in her upturned eyes broke his resistance and his words tumbled forth but stop just shy of disclosure. “I missed you.”
******
Sharon half expected Grant to refuse her offer to spend the night, but he accepted. Where had the offer come from? She never moved this fast. She’d asked a man she hardly knew to spend the night…with her…alone in her room. On what level of horniness had the request seemed a reasonable? Very very horny level was the correct answer. Now she lay in bed, covers clenched under her chin, listening to the sound of the shower in the next room. He was handsome, what else could she do? It wasn’t everyday she met someone like him and had an instant attraction.
Why not do it? It’s only for one night. I’m in New York, she made her case. No one’s going to find out. I may never see him again. I’m getting mine! Her hand moved down between her parted thighs, she was already wet and before long she was masturbating. Her fingers rhythmically circled her clit, her breathing increased as the thought of her secret liaison with Grant brought her closer and closer to orgasm. So distracted, she failed to notice Grant, towel-clad, watching her from the doorway.
He was tempted to watch her cum, but she caught him looking.
Oh God, She was mortified and prayed for the earth to swallow her whole—bed and all. She attempted to offer an excuse but he smiled slowly in response and moved closer until he stood over her in silence. Awkward! Thinking it couldn’t get any worse, it did. He removed the covers, exposing her naked semi-masturbatory body frozen in debilitating shame. Kill me, just kill me. She begged as he examined every inch—every flaw—every pound of her, imagined or other. Now, in her moment of humiliation, going to the gym didn’t seem like such a nuisance.
Leaning over, his hand soothed her hair and he gave her a long sensual kiss, showing her how much it turned him on to see her like this. As he kissed, her hand moved up his glutes, but he pulled away. This time he wanted to make her cum, to help her finish what she’d begun. “Come here. I want to see how wet you are.” He moved to the foot of the bed and beckoned her to him. Naturally she obeyed. He gave her a wicked grin and knelt in front of her, his wandering hands left no part of her surveyed. His small butterfly kisses on her legs, knees, and inner thighs left nothing unkissed.
Sharon's head swam. His lips ignited every pore they touched.
“Are you afraid of me?” he gently parted her thighs.
Maybe. “No,”
“Good,” he kissed her pussy. “There’s no need to be afraid. I’m not going to fuck you. You have my word. I’m going to eat you. You can watch if you’d like or lay there and enjoy. Understood?’
Sweet Sacks of Suga’, YES!! “Okay,” she croaked, wanting him to take her long, hard, any way he pleased. But he took his time. She felt a finger slowly drift up her slit. He kissed her knees, obviously enjoying how aroused she’d become. He was so close to her, she felt his hot breath on her lips, and then his finger teased her shallows and used her wetness to circle her clit. Sharon cried out as he rubbed in silence; her sounds of gratification played in their ears. “Please lick me!” she repeated with a plea in her tone. Suddenly, she felt his tongue, warm and wet, exploring between her lips; licking, tasting, teasing, drinking from her. “Fuuuck!” she came.
“Damn, I could stay down here all night.” Her juices dripped from his tongue as he sucked her lips clean. He parted her legs wide; her fingers ran through his hair, pulling his head in closer. He pulled away. “Sharon, your cum taste so damn good. I don’t think I’ll be able to let you go.” He fingered her to orgasm again.
“Goddamn, you don’t have to let me go!” she held his head in her hands, his intense sapphire eyes stared back at her. “It’s all yours.”
He licked his lips then provocatively sucked each…and every…one of her fingers. “Say it again.”
“Grant, I'll scream it from the rooftop. It’s all yours. I’ve never had a man…Ooohhh!” she cried as his tongue flicked her clit before he continued gorging. “Oh my God!!”
Just then Monica and Scott were returning from dinner and overheard the tell-tale sounds of Sharon having an orgasm. “I needed to talk to her but maybe I’ll wait until tomorrow.” She entered the room.
“That might be a good idea.” Scott closed the door.
Back in the room, Sharon held on to headboard for dear life. She was now riding his face—more or less being held captive by his tongue and suckling mouth. He sucked until she shook, convulsed, screamed, spoken in tongues and eventually came so hard Monica heard her from across the hall.
“Give it a minute,” Scott urged removing his tux. The air was still as they listened for more raucous.
None came and Monica threw on her robe and hurried across the hall with Mr. Fritz’s keys. She knocked and Sharon came to the door looking as though she’d been in a cage match, and lost. “Should I even ask?”
Sharon pulled her robe closed and stepped into the hallway and lowered her voice. “Girrrrl, I think that man swallowed my ovaries.”
“Dang, was it that good?”
Sharon’s face went hard as stone. “Yes, it was that good.”
“Well, I came to give you the keys to the townhouse, but I doubt you’ll be needing them.”
“No,” she tossed back to shattered remains of her hairdo. “I’m checking out tomorrow—I’m going to Grant’s.”
“Whatever,” Monica returned to her side of the hall. “You’d better keep his ass around long enough to find your ovaries. Goodnight and check your voicemail.”
“What?” Scott asked as Monica walked through the door.
“Nothing, just talking trash.” She hung her robe in the closet and stretched out along side Scott. “She’s checking out tomorrow so we have the townhouse to ourselves.”
He decided it was now or never. “Kiss me.”
She gave him a quick peck on the lips.
“No. A real kiss,” he turned her over onto her back and leaned over her. “Don’t look away.” They scanned one another; their eyes, their noses and lips, very detail. Gradually, they filled the space between them until their lips gently touched. He cupped her face tenderly and his tongue found hers. She held the side of his neck and surrendered to a sensation she’d never allowed herself. He softly sucked her bottom lip and recaptured her mouth. She returned his affection with quiet passion.
Finally braking for air, he placed his forehead on hers, “Monica, I love you.” The air left his lungs. To his horror, Monica stared back at him blankly in all-pervasive silence. “Please don’t say anything you don’t mean. I’m sorry; I had to tell you how I felt.”
“No, don’t apologize,” she steadied her tone. “I love you. I’m not afraid anymore. I love you. I mean it.”