Page 12 of Broken Clocks
I rolled my eyes before I even turned around, ready to dismiss whoever it was. Being a big girl meant a certain type of man always assumed I was accessible—to everyone. Even the ugly ones.
I already guessed, based on his tone, that he wasn’t my type. Probably had a mouth full of golds and breath like wet pennies.
But when I turned around?
I came face-to-face with the living, breathing personification of Aganju—the warrior king. I’d taken a Yoruba religions class for the culture a few months back, and this was what I imagined the African deity looked like.
Tall. Dark. Fatal.
About 6’5”, maybe 240 pounds. Skin the color of exotic black licorice.
“Damn,” slipped from my mouth as he licked his full lips. I wanted to follow that path with my own tongue.
My reaction brought a cocky grin to his bow-shaped lips. And he was damn well entitled to it. He was beautiful.
“Damn,” I said again, barely breathing.
The universe had really been showing out with these fine-ass men this week. First Donte. Now him.
“What’s your name?” I asked, offering my hand.
He took it, didn’t shake—just held it. I liked the rough feel of his callouses against my soft skin. I peeked at his fingernails. Clean. Thank God.
“Oakley,” he said. “What’s yours, beautiful? How you doing this evening?”
I fought the urge to cringe at the sound of his voice. Something about it was just… off. Flat. But I didn’t trip. I could solve that issue by keeping my pussy in his mouth.
He licked his lips again. I bit back a moan. I was doing too much but I was horny.
“I’m good, and you?”
“I’m decent. Ain’t never seen you around here before.”
I was about to explain I lived about 45 minutes away when I heard my name.
I turned and saw Donte standing behind me, shirtless, in white basketball shorts and fresh white Nikes.
Damn.
My thoughts scrambled. These Negroes had me forgetting all my vocabulary words.
“Hey,” I said, ignoring the scowl on his face and imagining my tongue gliding over his abs.
“Abs look real good in all black,” I thought to myself.
“You came to see him or me?” Donte asked, nodding at Oakley.
I looked back at Oakley. Equally fine. But he couldn’t talk dirty to me with that nasally voice.
“You,” I said, giving Oakley a little shrug that translated to,sorry, no pussy for you, and turned all my attention to Donte.
He looked so good all sweaty, I wasn’t even mad no more.
“Now that we solved that,” he said. “Lemme holla at you over here for a second.”
He turned and walked off like he expected me to follow.
His energy was off. I didn’t know how I felt about that or the attitude. He was the one that hadn’t texted me back. Shouldn’t I be the one mad?
