Читать книгу Visible Lives: - Terrance Dean - Страница 16

I wasn’t in a rush to get home that evening. Entering my condo alone every night is frustrating and aggravating. I really want a man of my own.

A love.

Someone happy to greet me.

Showering me with affection.

Feeling me up and making me feel needed.

Desired.

Wanted.

I walk into my living room and push the remote for the automatic drapes to close. I kick off my Gucci loafers near my brown suede sofa. I toss my leather black briefcase on the coffee table.

I pull out my Apple iPhone and call the local Thai restaurant for delivery.

The Vietnamese woman who answers recognizes my voice.

“Hello, Mr. Kennedy. How you?” she says in her broken English.

“I am good. I want my regular. Thai noodles with extra sauce.”

“No problem,” she says. “Twenty minutes.”

I enter my bedroom and remove my Tag Heuer watch. I place it on the night stand next to my alarm clock.

I sit on the edge of my king-sized bed. Why did I get this huge ass bed? It’s perfect when there is someone in it, but no one has been lying next to me except my goose-down-filled pillows.

I slowly take off my pants and shirt. I sigh as I sit wondering when my life will change. I keep wondering when my good life will begin.

My life in a happy and fun-filled relationship.

I refuse to grow another day.

Another year.

Before the gray hairs start sprouting.

Without someone.

And, I definitely am not interested in a dog.

A cat.

Or, anything non-human replacing my loneliness.

I go inside my walk-in closet and over to my oak dresser. I pull out a pair of gray sweat pants and a wife-beater. As I turn to walk out I catch a glimpse of my nude body in the full-length mirror. I stare at my reflection.

Not too bad.

For a thirty-eight-year-old.

I flex my chest.

Biceps.

I can give any twenty-something a run for his money.

Quincy.

Well, that’s another matter.

I saw his hard muscular body beneath his fitted khaki slacks and his yellow polo shirt.

He wore his clothes.

They didn’t wear him.

Every muscle protruding.

Big here.

Firm there.

Tight everywhere.

I even hear some of the younger girls gasp when he walks by their desks.

Then I hear Ashley’s voice. He’s gay. He didn’t even notice my girls.

Was he flirting when he said he performs well, he is a fast learner, he takes direction?

I know I became aroused when he said it. As I am now just thinking about him.

My mind floods with thoughts of Quincy.

His tall, toned body.

Bass-filled voice.

Hearty laugh.

Huge hands.

He seems to have all the perfect qualities I like and need in a man. I would love to be with him.

Right now.

I imagine him touching me.

My dick grows heavier.

Longer.

Harder.

I walk over and climb onto the bed.

I run my hands over my chest.

Pinching my nipples.

I caress my stomach.

I can feel Quincy lying next to me. I fit perfectly inside his strong arms. I find myself touching my erection wishing they were Quincy’s strong hands gripping and pulling my dick.

I gyrate, wanting to experience his body on top of mines.

I slowly stroke myself.

From shaft to head.

Winding my right hand.

Round and round.

Then up and down.

I’m eager to explode and let the warm juices splash on my hot, intense body.

Quincy’s face is close to mine.

His lips.

Thick.

Wet.

Nibble on my chest and stomach.

Then finally resting on my dick.

Tongue gliding.

Slurping.

Tickling my balls.

My legs flex.

Toes curl.

My breathing intensifies.

YES!

YES!

I want you! I need you!

My ears ring.

Louder.

Louder.

I’m ready to let go.

Release.

I stroke faster.

Faster.

Harder.

Faster.

The ringing continues.

It’s my cell phone.

Do I stop mid-stroke? Do I prevent the warm liquid in my nut sack from shooting out?

“FUCK!!!”

I rush to the phone because maybe it’s a man who wants to come over. Someone I can be naked with.

Not be alone.

Again.

Maybe it’s Eric.

Dante.

Braxton.

Hell, it can be any man.

“Mr. Kennedy,” the voice says.

“Yes. This is Mr. Kennedy.” I am excited to hear a man’s voice, but unable to recall it.

“Hey, baby,” the man says.

Who is this? I’m struggling to recognize the faint deep voice.

“It’s me, Trent.”