Page 9 of Aryan

CHAPTER6

Aryan

I fucked up. Bad. I have never in my life spoken to Brooklyn like that. Hell, I have never spoken like that to any woman. I just reacted when I walked back into the closet and saw her holding that box. Even after she checked my ass, I was still too mad to care about how I spoke to her. When I finally calmed down and went to find her to apologize, I realized she wasn’t there. I blew her phone up, but she never responded, leaving me unread. After a few hours of her not responding to me or even reading them, I got worried and sent a text to Jabarri, who informed me of her whereabouts. I decided to leave her alone once I knew she was safe, but I needed to talk to her.

All the progress we made in Africa went down the tubes immediately, and it’s my fault. I should have moved that damn box, but I forgot the thing was there. And that alone makes me feel guilty. I am in my workshop, working on another private commission: a ring, bracelet, necklace, and earring set. The client knew exactly what they wanted and sent pretty detailed designs over. This will probably be my most challenging job to date. I look at the special project I started, and I can’t bring myself even to touch it right now. I push that out of my mind and concentrate on bending the platinum in the proper shape, hoping to get lost in my work.

A sharp pain goes through my back when I move, and I realize a couple of things at the same time. First, I have been working bent over this table for hours, and second, I have pushed the commissioned piece to the side to work on a completely different project. When I went back to the closet and noticed she had left, I saw the box she left for me. I opened it to see the gold and gems she bought for me in Africa and felt even more like shit. I look at the matching set of barbells for her two-surface tragus and the septum ring I made with peach sapphires to match her hair. I don’t even know when I decided to make them. Checking my watch, I see she will not be home for another few hours. I pack her gifts, slide them into a velvet bag, grab my wallet and keys, and head out of the house. I have to fix this, but I know I may not be able to. Honestly, this thing between us lasted longer than I thought it would have. Brooklyn is a soothing balm to my soul, but am I being selfish? It isn’t until recently that she has intimated that she wants more. I have heard her on numerous occasions call me her friend, too, because that is what I am. That is what we agreed on. But she just recently began getting irritated when I call her that. At the end of the day, I want her to be happy.

I pull up to the store, and the valet takes my car and hands me a slip. I head to her favorite stores and stock up on some things for her. I grab her a peach blossom and a rose bouquet, her favorite snacks and drinks for the kitchen because I know the pool house is not stocked. I also buy her a few hoodies and thick socks because the pool house is usually cool, and she is always cold. I also sent a text to Jaasiel and asked him if he could cook Brooklyn’s favorite dinner. After he cusses me out, he says yes. I head back out, grab my car, tip the guy, and head home to get everything set up. I stock the kitchen, leave the shopping bags on the bed, put the flowers in a vase, and set them on the coffee table in the living room. I pull her jewelry boxes out and leave them on the coffee table with her flowers and a letter.

“Brooklyn, I know I fucked up, and I am so sorry for how I spoke to you. There is no excuse for it. I understand why you are here in the pool house, and even though I want to pack you up and bring you back to the suite, I understand that you need to be here right now. When you are ready to come back, I’ll be here waiting.

A

P. S. Dinner is in the oven. Also, I’d love to take you out tomorrow night. Please text me and let me know.

I leave the house and head back to my suite, hoping she decides to text me, but at the end of the day, I will respect it if she doesn’t. I go to take a shower and figure out what is for dinner for me now that I know Brooklyn is taken care of. I throw some lounge pants on and pad to the kitchen to see what I can come up with. I ended up making some roasted tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich. I don’t bother sitting down as I eat, I stand at the island. I remember a similar night a few years ago, where I was eating alone when I heard a knock at the door to open it, and there was Brooklyn standing there looking like she needed to be fucked.

“Brooklyn, what are you doing here?” I asked her. We didn’t try for part two after our attempt to be together the first time was interrupted when Carla went into labor. It was a blessing in disguise because I was able to talk to her and explain what I was looking for and what I could offer her. She looked at me for a long time before she said she understood, stood up, and walked out. But here she is tonight. It’s been a couple of weeks since that conversation, and here she is.

“You, you are what I am doing here,” she says before opening her coat to reveal that sexy as fuck body underneath, naked.

“Are you sure?” I ask because as much as my dick wants in, I do not want to hurt her.

“I’m sure,” she says. The rest, as they say, is history. The first time I pushed inside her wetness, I was a goner. She was tight and a virgin.

“Aryan,” she says, squirming underneath me, trying to adjust to my dick, and I only had the head in.

“I got you, baby,” I tell her, pulling the head out and scooting down on the bed to bury my head between her thick thighs. Feeling the weight of her thighs on my thighs made me want to rush this, but the look of pain on her face won out. “Let me play with this pussy. How long has it been since you’ve been with a man?” I ask her before I play with my food. “Um, about ten years, give or take,” she responds, and I stop in my tracks because she has got to be kidding.

“Seriously?”

“Yes,” she says, looking a little embarrassed—no wonder she’s tight as hell. I lean over, licking her pink pussy from top to bottom, and her legs slam close on my head.

“Oh, my goodness, that feels so good. I’ve never...” she breaks off when I lick her again. She can’t possibly mean she has never had a man eat her lush pussy before. I have to ask.

“Brooklyn, this can’t be your first time having this done to you, is it?” She merely bites her lip and shakes her head yes, and I am flabbergasted. She has a body made for fucking, a fat ass, ass women are paying good money to have, thick as molasses thighs, a small waist, a flat stomach, and some pretty titties topped with pretty chocolate nipples, and she is almost innocent? How can that be? We’re going to have to talk about that later, after, I think, as I go back to eating my new treat, making sure her first time is memorable and pleasurable. By the time I was done making her cum, and stretching her with my fingers, she was finally able to take my dick. Now she might have been a novice to some things, but when it came to fucking, she was a pro. She threw that pussy, gripped my dick with her muscles, and rode me until my toes curled. It was after, when I was feeding her, that she told me about her—being promiscuous after her mother died. She told me they were young, and that was an era where black men didn’t eat pussy like they do now. After having sex indiscriminately for a while, she met Edreece, and he was the only one until he died. After she didn’t have a desire for another man, until me, honestly, I was honored.

The chirp of my phone alerting me to a new text message brought me out of my memories. Checking my phone, I see it’s from Brooklyn, and it’s three words.Thank you. Okay.A smile makes its way across my face, and I begin planning our date. I know there is a new movie she wants to see and dinner, not very original, but I am not looking for originality points. I am looking to apologize and mend what I broke between us. I texted her back the plans, asking if she was okay with that. Almost immediately, she responds with another one-word answer:yes.I’ll take it. I put up the rest of the soup I made and the rest of the food I left out, put my dishes in the dishwasher, and clean the rest of the kitchen before I head to bed, hoping things work out, she accepts my apology, and things can go back to like they were before, or perhaps after we put everything out in the open, they can be even better.And if she wants to walk away?My inner voice taunts.I’ll let her go.I respond. I’d have to, even if it might not be easy.

Brooklyn

I am too tired to do anything but go home. I know there is nothing in the pool house to eat, but there is always food in the main house, so I’ll sneak in there and grab food. Imagine my surprise when I get home and see everything Aryan left for me. All my favorite snacks and drinks are hoodies and socks because he knows I am always cold, especially at night. He programmed the TV with all my favorite shows, but the coup de gras was the letter and gifts. The jewelry was gorgeous. It is the first time he’s given me jewelry, and they are perfect. So, after I read the letter, he left me it was a no-brainer, the answer was yes. After finding my favorite meal in the oven that I know for a fact Jaasiel cooked, I had to talk myself off the ledge of going back to him tonight, but that wouldn’t get me anywhere. I need time away from him to figure out what is best for me. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t looking forward to our date. I finish eating, clean up, grab my flowers, place them on the nightstand before taking a shower, and put on the hoodie and nightgown. I grab my blanket, turn on my TV show, and fall asleep before the opening credits finish rolling.

CHAPTER7

Brooklyn

I am deciding on what to wear for my date tonight when the doorbell goes off.

“What is going on?” Parker says before the door opens completely.

“Um,” I say as I look at the Gideon wife intervention standing at the door.

“Well, don’t just stand there open up so we can talk,” True says. “What’s wrong? What are you looking for?”

“Savvy,” I say because it’s usually her who heads these things up.

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