Page 27 of The Close-Up (Hollywood Renaissance 1.50)

Chapter Six

Takira

I drank too much and didn’t fuck enough.

Correction. I didn’t fuckat all, and it’s been so long that I’m feeling it. My head pounds, and my pussy throbs. She’s mad at me for walking away from what could have been—but now we’ll never know—the best dick of my life. Maybe Naz wouldn’t deliver on that kiss, but the way he took my tongue in his mouth and sucked hard while his big hands were so gentle at my throat, on my shoulders, arms, back? That was a man who knew what he was doing, and he wanted to do it to me.

And I’ll be damned if I didn’t want to let him.

“Shit.”

I roll onto my back and slide a hand into my panties beneath the coolness of the sheets. As soon as I got home, I downed quite a bit of wine, hoping to take off the edge Naz pushed me to. I peeled that bodysuit off, tossed my Jimmy Choos into a corner, and crawled in bed bare. I woke up soaked from dreams of that man, a collage of the past, the present, and the future he gave me a glimpse of last night with a mere kiss. A future where he fucks me like I’ve been wanting, needing for a long time. I like it hard and deep and nasty.

No apologies. No shame.

My sister even got me a vibrator for Christmas. My people know. None of those Groundhog dates have led to anything—not only no relationships, but no hook-ups. I love sex, but I’m discriminating. Not just anyone is getting up in here, and so far, I haven’t been impressed by the LA buffet.

The last great orgasm I wasn’t personally responsible for occurred two weeks ago at an industry party. There was this girl…Janna, I think. Her name is fuzzy. The way that chick robo-tongued me for like an hour—that part is crystal clear. She left no crumbs. I find women tend to take their time—to be attuned to your body’s responses. Once they find a spot, they stay there. It would be really convenient if I didn’t also like to be filled, like, to the brim with dick. If I didn’t like a man’s rough hairs abrading my legs and crave that weight on top of me, behind me. If I didn’t like to wake up tucked into the solid bulk of a man at my back, but I do. I’ve given and received to all and enjoyed it all. I want to feel good with people I like and respect. Whatever you call that, that’s what I am. Bisexual. Sexual. Others can choose to label it. I just live it.

I work my clit, slick and swollen between my legs, trail the other hand up my torso to squeeze my breast, pluck at one nipple. My body responds, but there’s something detached about this. Something almost mechanical that leaves me cold inside even as parts of me go hot. I give up, jerking my hand from my panties and letting it fall by my head in a clenched fist.

Naz’s handsome face keeps crowding my thoughts. That kiss—hot, commanding, tender—has me shook. Left me wanting something I can’t quite put my finger on, no pun intended. It’s more than just sex. It’s curiosity. It’s fascination. Excitement. I can’t name all the emotions Naz sparked in me last night, but I know they picked up from where they left off that night so many years ago. We talked and made out that night, sure, but we were just kids. Last night—that was some grown folks shit, and I’ve rarely—if ever—felt an attraction that intense.

My phone on the bedside table rings, jarring me from the smutty mire of my thoughts. I unplug it from the charger and bring it to my ear, not bothering to check who’s calling.

“Hello,” I yawn into the phone, swiping a hand down my face and frowning at the black and fuchsia smears on my palm. I broke the cardinal rule of makeup removal last night.

“Me sistah,” Janice, my eldest sibling, drawls from the other line, exaggerating her island lilt. She actually does have a little bit left from living in Trinidad longer than I did and learning to talk while she was there. “What are you doing this fine morning?”

“Nothing much.” I sit up and prop my back against the headboard. “Just laying around, looking like yesterday.”

“How’d the fashion show go? You see any celebrities?”

“A few. I met Lotus Ross, of course.”

“I love her stuff.”

“Same.” I lick my lips before going on. “There were lots of basketball players there. Her husband, Kenan, had recruited a lot of his friends, so I met a few ballers.”

I pause, tugging the sheet up to cover my breasts. I’ve never told Janice about that one night with Naz. I was especially hesitant when it became clear what a sore subject he became for Cliff, and by extension, the rest of my family.

“You know this old married lady lives vicariously through you, Tee. Please tell me you smashed some rich, famous, fine-ass baller.”

I get out of bed, slipping a short silk robe on over my thong. Leaving it to hang open, I pad barefoot to the kitchen.

“How about a kiss?” I ask, not sure how much I should tell her or how she’ll respond. She knows as well as I do how Cliff feels about Naz.

“Who was it? Anybody I know?”

“Um…” I start my coffee machine. “Nazareth Armstrong?”

For a few extended seconds, the drip of my coffee is the only sound. Is she even breathing?

“Hellooo?” I ask, forcing a laugh. “Is this thing on?”

“You saw Naz? You kissed Naz?”

“Wasn’t the first time,” I mutter, fitting the phone between my ear and shoulder to grab yogurt from the fridge.

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