The Side Effects of You Page 6

  “Just relax and let me show you.” I rubbed his crotch, then undid his slacks and pulled down his boxers. I then knelt down in front of him.

  “Sam, I’m good with taking things slow.” But he didn’t pull away.

  “I know, and I appreciate that. I just want to show you how much I do.” Eyes locked on him, I wrapped my thick lips around him, barely wetting his entire shaft. He hissed, and I knew he wanted some sexual relief.

  “Aww, Sam, baby, you didn’t . . . have to.... Ooh, baby, that is so good. Baby, I like that.” He moaned and placed one hand on my head. “Do that shit, baby. You look so sexy, sucking my dick like that.”

  I went in even deeper, pleasing him the way I wished my infected pussy could be pleased. Hell, if I could keep him interested with blow jobs, it would be marvelous.

  “I’m going to make this dick cum,” I whispered between slurps. I was bobbing my head up and down, taking his eight, maybe nine inches to Pleasureville. I wanted him to have this slob job on his brain the next day.

  I wanted him to want more, and I wished I could feel this sexy-ass rod inside my body.

  “Baby, let me see your tongue,” he requested.

  I did exactly what he asked and followed every command he gave me until he released his fluids. Tempted to let him nut in my mouth, I pulled back. He wouldn’t get that pleasure so soon.

  Breathing heavily, he said. “Sam, what made you do that? I mean, one minute we are talking no sex, taking it slow, and then you sucked me to ecstasy, baby. I mean, that was . . . woo.”

  “I just wanted to show you that I’m interested.”

  “I know you are, and what you just did, baby . . . I’m convinced. I mean, you hit me out of left field. I’m still in awe. Please tell me that you will do that again.”

  I stood. “Yes, darling. I plan to do that again.”

  He stood and headed to the guest bathroom to clean himself up. I ran into my master bath to brush and gargle.

  I met him back in the living room.

  “Come here.” He pulled me close. “I really like you, Sam, and I don’t want to mess this up, so whether you give me the goods, please my dick like you just did, or just want to hold hands and play Scrabble, that’s what I want to do.”

  I smiled. We had been dating for only four weeks, with each night spent together. He was the one. Ethan was 97 percent of the man I wanted. I knocked off 3 percent because he snored, but everything else about him was perfect.

  I took a step back, touched his face, and kept smiling. “That’s exactly what I want.”

  He pulled me into his strong embrace again and kissed me tenderly. Our tongues danced, and my pussy was wet and ready to have that pipe in his pants, but I knew I couldn’t let him inside unless I told him the truth.

  I pulled back. “Baby, we should get going. I’m a little hungry.”

  “Me too, but I’m hungry for you.”

  “Soon, sweetheart. I promise.”

  “Okay, babe. let’s go.”

  He went for his keys, and I for my purse. We drove downtown, holding hands and listening to the radio. I was falling for him. Ethan was my type, my desire.

  I hated that Charles had come before him.

  Ethan was a gentleman. Pulled out my chair, opened my door, and always asked me, “What would you like?”

  I had to end it. As perfect as this thing was, I knew he’d head for the hills once he knew my secret. God, please let humanity find a cure, I said to myself as he helped me out of his SUV. He was the perfect man for me, but I wasn’t the perfect woman for him. I wished I had never gone out with him in the first place.

  If I had just said no, I wouldn’t have gotten to know such a wonderful man. So far, he had treated me better than any man I’d ever dated. He was sexy, smart, romantic, funny, and gentle. I loved spending every free moment with him. I couldn’t wait to see his face, and whenever he came into the restaurant to wait for me to get off or close, I knew I had found the one.

  Because of that, I had to let him go.

  Damn!

  Chapter Nine

  Andrea

  Totally taken by surprise, I asked, “Quentin, how did you get my number?”

  “It’s on your business card.”

  Duh! How else would he have gotten it? “What do you want? Why are you calling me?”

  “How are you?”

  “I’m fine, Quentin. What is this about? Why are you calling me?”

  “I just wanted to talk to you, Andrea. Listen, I know you are married, and I don’t want to rattle any cages or cause you any trouble.”

  “Well, don’t call me, Q. I can’t do this with you. What do you want?”

  “Can I see you?”

  I looked up at the ceiling and rolled my eyes. Was he insane? Did he think I’d say, “Sure. Come on over”? I headed for the kitchen, still rolling my eyes. “No, Quentin, you cannot see me. I am a married woman, and we cannot hang out.”

  “Why can’t we?”

  Was he crazy? Did he not hear me say that I was a married woman? “Because we can’t, and please don’t call me again.” I hit the END button, tossed my phone onto the counter, and went to the fridge. I needed to chill the bottle of Chardonnay I had.

  I didn’t know what Quentin was up to, but I wasn’t going to allow him to just pop back into my life. Things were bad enough with Jeremiah. I didn’t need any more drama in my life. Wherever Quentin was, there was sure to be some drama.

  I grabbed my shopping bags and headed toward the steps. My cell rang again. This time, I wasn’t going to be so nice. I grabbed it and let out a sigh of relief when I saw it wasn’t the same number.

  “Hello,” I sang.

  “Mrs. Young?” the other voice recited.

  “Yes, this is she.”

  Silence.

  “Hello,” I said again.

  Nothing. A moment later, the call ended. That was strange. I figured whoever it was would call me back, but after a couple of moments and no calls, I went on up to my bedroom. I went into the bathroom, hit PLAY on my iPod dock, and started the shower. While I was undressing, my mind went back to the call, but quickly my thoughts shifted to Quentin. I wondered what was he up to and why he wanted to see me again.

  I knew in my heart that hanging around Quentin would be a bad thing, because I was super horny and two seconds from cheating on Pastor Young. Hanging out with my ex would lead me down the road of adultery, because he still looked sexy as hell to me. Tall, still in good physical shape, with beautiful shoulders. I had a flashback of him holding me and breathing on my ear when he spoke. I felt butterflies in my stomach, just thinking of being close to him again.

  I wanted him to take my body back to the days when my thighs shook, because it was so damn good. I wanted to moan in his ear as he slowly penetrated my wetness. He knew how to make me quiver, something Jeremiah had never mastered. Quentin had a way with my breasts and could make me cum just by sucking my nipples hard and good, something I had dreamt Jeremiah would eventually learn how to do, but it had never happened.

  After showering and drying my skin, I noticed the alert light on my phone blinking. I went over and saw I had three missed calls. All from the number that the mysterious woman had called from. I called my voice mail to listen to the message she had left, but there was only silence. Not really interested in who she was or why she was calling, I tossed my phone onto the bed and applied my lotion.

  Finally, in a comfortable pair of sweats and a tank, I headed downstairs to pour myself a glass of chilled wine and catch up on my recorded episodes of Scandal. I had missed the entire season and for weeks had waited for a quiet evening alone to watch the episodes. Snuggled on the sofa in my family room, I was enjoying the series and the peace and quiet. On my third episode and my second glass of wine, I got a text alert.

  Meet me for 1 drink pls. I really need 2 c u .

  I studied the message for a few moments before I replied. No.

  I won’t get u into any trouble. Pls, And
rea.

  No!

  What can I do 2 chg ur mind?

  Absolutely nothing.

  Why r u treating me so cold? Can we at least b friends? We were close once .

  We were .

  I miss that.

  I wanted to say that I did too, but I didn’t. So y do u wanna c me so bad? R u dying or something? LOL.

  No I’m not dying, LOL. U prob wish that I was.

  No I don’t. I don’t hate u, Q.

  That’s comforting 2 no.

  LOL. I couldn’t hate u even if I tried. I wondered how I had just that quickly allowed him to engage me in this sneaky conversation.

  Same here. Just one drink, Andrea. I really want 2 c u.

  I can’t.

  Y not?

  It wouldn’t be wise.

  Y wouldn’t it be? It’s me, Andrea, not some stranger.

  B/c I’m married.

  And if u r happily married, seeing me shouldn’t have any effect on your marriage. We are old friends.

  No, we are ex-lovers.

  That 2, but we grew up together. We were friends before we dated, remember?

  Yes I do.

  I smiled to myself. I did miss that bond we’d shared, how he used to always make me laugh and smile, and how he’d keep me company in the kitchen while I tried to cook in our first apartment. Even if I burned something or if it didn’t turn out right, he would find a way to make a joke about it so I wouldn’t feel so bad.

  It was wrong, and I knew I should have ended the conversation right then, but I keyed in a response. Ok, where do u want 2 meet?

  Andrea, serious? U r not playing wit me?

  Serious. U r right. We were close once n meeting u 4 a drink can’t taint my marriage.

  U r right.

  There is a place not too far from my salon on Wabash called M Lounge.

  Yes, I’m familiar. I can meet you.

  In about an hour?

  I’ll b there.

  I got up from the sofa and went up to my bedroom, wondering if I should back out. Seeing Quentin was harmless, but how long would that last? He was my first love, and although I had married Jeremiah for love, the love I had for him wasn’t as deep as the love I had for Quentin.

  Jeremiah was always serious and uptight. Yes, we had shared some good times. I’d be lying if I said we didn’t. But we had never shared any romantic times. My husband wasn’t cruel, but he was far from sweet. No holding hands, no kisses, just because . . . or hardly ever, anyway. He would go out of town for ministry work and would not call me for a couple of days, as if he hadn’t left his family back in a completely different state. He threw a bigger celebration for the church anniversary than he’d ever done for our anniversary, and six months after he’d initially stopped touching me, I’d woken up wishing I hadn’t committed myself to him. When he stopped coming up to our bed and slowly began moving his items into the guest bedroom, I’d visited the divorce subject, but he’d put a lid on that topic quickly, saying, “Folks who follow God don’t divorce.”

  I still scratched my head at that. To remain in a situation that brought unhappiness was just plain stupid, but there I was a little over two years later, still in an unfulfilling marriage with someone who had become a stranger to me. Yes, there was a stranger in my house, a man impersonating my husband, and I wanted to be done with that imposter. I at least wanted to get back to the times when he pretended he loved me, or even just liked me.

  Now, as I headed into my bathroom to glam up, my phone rang. When I got to it, I had missed another call from that mysterious woman’s number. Too pressed for time, I put the phone down and went back to the mirror to finish getting ready to meet with Quentin. After twenty minutes of convincing myself to go, I got in my car and headed out to meet the ex-love of my life. Traffic was light, so I made it in record time. I parked went inside, and since the sports bar wasn’t crowded, I immediately spotted Quentin and headed over to his table.

  “You look very nice,” he complimented when I got there.

  I took a seat. “So do you.”

  “I ordered you an amaretto sour.”

  I shook my head and chuckled. “I don’t drink those anymore. I stopped drinking those ages ago.”

  He signaled for our server. “I didn’t know, Andrea. I thought . . . I just . . .”

  “Quentin, it’s okay.”

  The server was there in a flash.

  “Can I cancel that amaretto sour and get . . .” Quentin looked at me.

  “Chardonnay will be fine,” I replied.

  “Yes, ma’am.” The server was off, and I was left sitting across from a grinning Quentin.

  “Why are you smiling so hard?”

  “Because of you. I mean, you look amazing.”

  “Amazingly huge,” I said and looked around the room to avoid eye contact with him.

  “Yes, you’re not that thin chick I dated back in high school and college, but it looks good on you. Thick or thin, you’ve always been beautiful to me.”

  That was sweet, but I didn’t say anything. I looked down.

  “I’m serious, Andrea.”

  “Listen, I agreed to come out and have a drink with you, Quentin. Now, if there is no motive behind seeing me again, we can’t do this. I can’t start hanging out with you. I’m married, and it’s not a good look.”

  “Listen, Drea, I know you are married, but I can tell you are not happy.”

  Oh, now he was psychic. “What? What makes you think that?”

  “Drea, come on. When you throw this marriage bull at me, it’s like your shield, your way of convincing yourself not to be near me. I can tell by your body language that you’re not happy. Your eyes don’t dance when you say the word marriage. A woman who is truly happy with her marriage or her mate would smile and say it gracefully. It wouldn’t come across as defensive. It would flow, like you are happy.”

  Who the hell was he? Dr. Phil? Just because my face didn’t glow because I was married didn’t mean I wasn’t happy. Okay, it did, but I refused to tell that to him.

  “Look, I am happy. Just because I didn’t do a handstand or a cartwheel when I said it doesn’t mean I’m not happy.”

  “Okay, let me rephrase this. Does he make you happy? Happy is a state of mind, so you could be happy with Andrea. But does your husband make you happy?”

  I looked away. I hadn’t been happy with him for a very long time. Yes, I was a happy person because of my salon, my kids, my beautiful home, and my family and friends, but Jeremiah hadn’t done a thing in over two years to make me happy.

  In a whisper, I lied. “Yes.”

  “Okay.”

  That was it, although he said okay like he didn’t believe me. I didn’t care.

  “Tell me about you and your marriage, Quentin. Are you happy?” I wanted to get caught up with him since he was so caught up on me.

  “I’m divorced. Been divorced for four and a half months, and no, she wasn’t making me happy. We both became so consumed with work and image that we stayed in a loveless marriage for over three years. One day I came home to my huge five-bedroom house and decided I didn’t want that kind of marriage anymore. It was too much space for me and the woman who lived there with me, not sharing it with me. I mean, it stayed spotless . . . always clean and organized, almost sterile. Can you imagine living in a home where you sat at the table together only at the holidays?

  “Just imagine coming home to takeout or a quick microwavable dinner and then going up to bed with your spouse, who has files everywhere, so you have to go lie down in the guest room. Imagine planning a romantic night, but then you get a text saying, ‘So sorry, babe. I can’t make it.’ Andrea, it got so bad that I said for seven days I wasn’t going to say a word to her. I was going to see if she noticed. And you know what? She didn’t. I was alone in my marriage. Awesome career, hefty bank account, a couple of fancy cars, but in a loveless marriage. When I filed for the divorce, all she said was, ‘Okay. It is what it is.’”

  He
chuckled. He was about to continue, but just then the server brought our drinks. We ordered a couple of finger foods, and then he dove back in.

  “Scheduling sex, frowning when I touched her, changing the subject when I wanted to talk about it got old.” He sipped his drink. “I told myself over and over that Andrea would have loved me, taken care of me, and cooked for me. Even if the mean was burnt or a disaster, she would have tried, just to make me happy. I let the best thing I ever had go. And the baby, that is an even bigger regret.”

  Both of our eyes welled up. I hopped up. “Ladies’ room.” I dashed off.

  How dare he do that to me? Give me that sob story of how she treated him, I told myself as I stepped into the ladies’ room and walked over to sink. Still, I wanted to beat the snot out of her for hurting him. Quentin was one of the good ones. To have him was an honor.

  “Stop it, Andrea,” I said to myself in the mirror. Why was his story so freaking similar to mine? Why did his spouse treat him just as horribly as Jeremiah treated me? Hell, even worse. At least Jeremiah had a scripture or two to hit me with each day to make me feel like I was the evildoer in the marriage.

  And then Quentin brought us up. And the baby. I had to get the hell out of there.

  “Okay, finish your drink and go home,” I told my reflection.

  When I got back to the table, our appetizers were there. Then the server came over with another glass of wine for me.