Page 31 of Juliet's Echo

My eyes drifted shut as the memory of her in that fitted grey dress played back in full color. Breasts perfectly stacked, spilling out tastefully, hips looking like they were built to carry the weight of bearing my seed, ass just enough to grip.

Damn.

I could tell wasn't nobody hitting that on the regular. And if they were, they damn sure weren't hitting it right. That attitude on her was too potent. Even her little button nose had the nerve to flare when she was irritated.

I chuckled to myself thinking about how thoroughly I'd gotten under her skin at the festival. She had the look of a woman who wanted to stab me — but her eyes carried this lustful daze that her attitude couldn't quite cover. Her body was ready to melt into mine and I would have gladly accepted every bit of it. I'd cuff her pussy while my tongue invaded her mouth and let the whole city know she was mine.

Licking my lips, my jaw tightened as my thoughts darkened. If I ever got the opportunity to experience her sensually — man. Nah. I'd lose my fucking mind.

I'd ruin her nice and slow. Lay her bare body down and descend deliberately, massaging every curve on the way. Her body was nice and healthy too — just the way I liked. Can't speak for every man, but when I bite, I want to feel meat, not bone. Once I had her positioned exactly where I wanted her, I'd bend her legs back, make sure them feet were planted, part her thighs and devour that pussy. Licking and sucking every ounce of that attitude out of her body until every sharp little comeback dissolved into broken breathing and begging. Hearing that mouth fail her would have me ready to bust — but I'd dick her down long before my climax. Deep and unhurried, until she was drooling and had completely forgotten how much she claimed to hate a nigga. Her pretty face would twist in frustration because her body had betrayed every stubborn thought in her head and she loved every second of this euphoric ride.

Loving me.

Damn. The way she'd look spread across my bed — I knew I'd fall all the way in—

"Psalm!"

A feminine voice cut through everything. My eyes snapped open.

My mother stood in the doorway leading to the patio, one brow raised. You had to be one powerful woman to dissolve a wet daydream like that.

"What!" I exhaled sharply.

Her expression shifted immediately. The infamous "do I look like one of your little friends" stare — the one that comes automatically coded into Black mothers everywhere.

Selene Mitchel. Olive skin, blue eyes, all of five foot nothing. What our older family members back south called "passing." I didn't know the full depth of her family's history, but I knew it started on the Robertson plantation back in the Carolinas. And for lack of a harsher explanation, the bloodline got lightened somewhere along the way. My great-great-grandmother became pregnant with my great-grandmother and was terrified of what that meant for her unborn child. The way Selene tells it, great-great-grandmother stole money and jewelry from the Robertson mansion and her and her two sisters fled all the way to New Jersey — where she built a life from nothing, shortening her given surname Robertson to Roberts.

"My bad, Ma. I didn't mean to say it like that," I said, correcting my tone.

"Mm-hmm. You better not had — don't let the height fool you, I whup ass," she smiled, pointing that short index finger directly at me.

She nodded back toward the house. "Your cousin Alonse is here."

I groaned immediately. "Why is he here again?" Knowing damn well I didn't actually care — I was just annoyed at the expectation of having to entertain him.

"Because his development in Florida is under investigation. They believe the soil beneath the property contains hazardouschemicals." She explained. "He just needs somewhere to stay while the testing is completed and he figures out his next move."

"And he couldn't take his grown ass to a hotel?" I challenged.

"Psalm!"

"Nah, Ma — he's like fifty, rich and weird. How'd he even get here? Ain't he scared of trees or something?"

My mother pinched the bridge of her nose. "He is in his late thirties. And he has agoraphobia — a fear of open or unfamiliar spaces. It's a condition he can't control."

"That's suspect, because if he don't like outside, how did Doctor Strange get himself here? Teleport?"

My mother opened the patio door and grabbed my arm firmly. "Get your ass up."

"Ma—"

"Now!"

She dragged me off that patio like I was three years old and marched me through the house toward the guest hall.

And there he stood. Alonse. Dressed like his entire personality was golf and political debates. Ole Carlton Banks looking ass — and not the fly one from the reboot. Standing so stiff you'd think somebody had superglued his feet to the floor.

Why does he have those thick ass socks and tennis shoes on?