Page 65 of The Man Handler

After that, he crawled up over me, kissed me with his pussy-stained lips, started sucking on my lips, then stuck his tongue into my mouth, twirling his around mine. We became tongues and hands and mouths and lips and bodies colliding against each other. Tasting and touching and wanting and feeling desire until he slid his dick inside of me and stretched my pussy to capacity, hitting its bottom, knocking its sides, causing its walls to expand and contract and erupt into a sea of sweet, sticky juices.

I reached up underneath him, reached for his balls, touching them, stroking them, spreading my legs wider so that he could get lost in my pussy, bury his dick in my pussy, and never want to leave my pussy. I felt for his dick while he humped and pumped and banged and grinded and thrust in and out of me, feeling his hot, thick cum creeping out of my wet pussy, trickling down the center of my ass. Then…I woke up!

Gazing out of my office window, I squeeze my legs shut and wonder why I would dream about Derek—of all people, after all this time. I haven’t seen or heard from him in years. Haven’t even given him any thought. The last I had heard, he was married with six kids, living somewhere in Houston. Damn, six kids, I think, shaking my head, remembering how good he stroked my pussy. I suppose if things had been different between us, if we hadn’t grown apart, I would have been the one bogged down with a house full of whining-ass brats. I shudder at the thought. I don’t know how some of these women do it. Pop out a bunch of babies like bunny rabbits.

I wonder to myself what’s worse, not wanting to have a baby by someone you love or not wanting one by someone you have no emotional connection to. For either scenario, I come up with no logical answer. Is there really a difference?

Someone taps on my door, disrupting my reverie. The door slowly opens before I can invite whoever is on the other side in. Everett peers his head in. “Hey there,” he says, smiling. “You busy?”

“No, not at all,” I reply, motioning for him to come in. I silently watch him as he shuts the office door, then glides across the room towards me.

Cool.

Calm.

Collected.

His eyes are on mine, and there is a flicker of lust behind his pupils—and mine. But I dare not act on it. I will not. Everett has a confidence in his swagger that borders on cockiness. One that lets me know he’s a man who handles his business in and out of the bed. A man who knows what he wants, and goes after it, even if it means taking it. I find it, him, enticing. He sits in one of two leather chairs positioned in front of my desk.

“You’re looking and smelling good enough to eat, as always,” he says, innuendo dripping from his thick lips as he sits back in his chair. He spreads open his legs. I try hard not to look in the center of his crotch. I shift in my chair, twirling a strand of hair. This delectable motherfucker is asking for trouble, I think, leaning forward in my chair, then steeple my fingers beneath my chin, taking him in. He looks deliciously fuckable sitting in front of me wearing a crisp, starched pink shirt, a chocolate-brown and pink swirled tie, and chocolate-brown dress slacks. His faded beard is neatly trimmed. Not a hair out of place. I breathe in his cologne. Silently hold it in, then exhale. Nice, I think, catching the glint of his one-carat diamond in his left ear.

He smiles, flashing straight, white teeth. Then tilts his head, studying me.

“What?” I ask, fumbling with the diamond pendant hanging around my neck.

“You’re glowing.”

I nervously shift in my seat. “So, what brings you to my side of the world?” I ask, dismissing his comment.

You, I hear him say in my head. I shift in my seat.

A mischievous grin forms on his lips as he eyes me seductively. “I don’t think you’re ready for the answer to that,” he says, his grin turning into a wide smile. “So I’m going to give you the politically correct response, and say I was only stopping by to see how life is treating you.”

“Yeah, okay,” I reply. “You could have called me for that.”

“Yeah, you right,” he offers, still smiling. “But it wouldn’t have been the same as seeing your beautiful face.”

Despite myself, I smile, shaking my head. “Everett, you are a mess.”

“I’m trying to be your mess, but you keep running from me.”

“Okay, here we go with this running foolishness again. Think what you like. But I’m not going to keep having this conversation with you.”

He leans forward in his seat, resting his forearms on his thighs, cupping his hands together. His eyes lock on mine. “Why can’t two consenting adults who happen to work in the same building spend time together outside of work when they both are obviously attracted to each other?”

I stare at him, consider him without being too obvious. Summa Cum Laude Morehouse graduate; third ranking at Wharton School of Business; chiseled, athletic build, smooth cocoa-colored skin with high cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes; succulent, pussy-eating lips; ruggedly handsome; well-spoken; and impeccably dressed.

“What makes you think I’m attracted to you?” I ask, raising my brow.

“Oh, you’re not?” he asks, feigning hurt. He sits back in his seat with his legs gaped open, then breaks into laughter. I stare at him. Count the number of times he fans his legs open and shut in my head. Eight. I force myself not to look at his bulging crotch. I shift in my seat, keeping my eyes locked on his.

“Not at all,” I lie. “Don’t get me wrong. You look good and all, but definitely not my type.”

He lets out another hearty laugh.

“I’m glad you find me so amusing.”

He gets up from his seat, places the open palms of his hand down on my desk, leaning forward. His face is inches from mine. He stares into my eyes, and I feel myself becoming flushed from the heat of his breath. But I do not blink, do not shift my eyes from his gaze. I refuse to become undone.

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