Does a Five-Year Age Difference Really Make a Difference?

Dear Zane,



There's this guy and I find myself really attracted to him. But the problem is we work together, I don't believe in mixing business with pleasure, and there is a 5-year age difference. I know that he's something special because every time he comes around me, I smile and act all giddy, but I can't help but think that the age difference is going to become a problem for us so. For now, I’m just being an associate because I don't know if we should take it there and I also can't help thinking what if we don't work out and then, because we work together, it messes with our relationship at work.


Signed,
Five Years Younger





Dear Five Years Younger,


A five-year age difference is not tremendous when it comes to adults. I sense that you are somewhat young. There is nothing wrong with the age as long as you are both over eighteen. If you were saying ten years, then I might have a bigger comment.


The bigger issue is working together and taking the risk of ruining that relationship. Sometimes we read more into someone’s kindness than what is actually there. I have had many men make the assumption that I was romantically interested in them when that could not have been further from the case. I would suggest continuing to have a crush on him, establishing a good friendship, but leaving it at that. He may or may not already have a woman and you do not want to make a move and then have to suffer embarrassment daily at work.


Blessings,
Zane

A Sexless Marriage

Dear Zane,


I realize that you are a very busy woman but I need a little bit of help. I am twenty-one years old and will be married for a year on my birthday. Here is the thing, my sex life sucks. I am bisexual and I want to have a threesome because I have never had one before. My husband will not let me. I realize that is selfish to say but there are some people who want to have a threesome with me and I want to do it with them. But I do not want to hurt my husband. My other question is how can I spice up my sex life with a man who seems to have no time for me anymore? Any advice would be helpful.


Signed,
Sexless Marriage





Dear Sexless Marriage,


Regarding the threesome, that is something that should have been discussed and decided upon before you got married last year; especially since you are bisexual. You knew that the possibility would exist for you to crave being with a woman. Your husband should and can expect you to confine your sex within the marriage, unless a mutual decision is made to do otherwise. The decision you must make is if you are willing to throw your marriage away to be with others. It may have been better to stay single. I often wonder why people get married and then want to have sex with others. Marriage is not mandatory and you could be single and have sex with whomever you want, whenever you want. But you chose to get married and I will assume you did that out of love. So, if you love him, you may have to make a sacrifice and place his feelings above your desires. He has made it clear that anything else is unacceptable.


As for him not having any time for you, that could be from a variety of things. One such thing might be the fact that you have made him feel sexually inadequate by asking to bring someone else into the bedroom. Some men get jealous of sex toys and masturbation, rather less their wife fucking other people. You need to sit him down and have a very candid discussion with him about your marriage and your concerns. Implement two “date nights” per week where both of you are on time and ready to spend quality time. That is a good start but do not start tripping on your marriage in less than a year. You are young but a commitment is a commitment.


Blessings,
Zane

Excerpt of Love Trumps Game

ZANE COMMENT

Love Trumps Game is a phenomenal book, on so many levels. A lot of young ladies make the wrong choice when it comes to selecting a mate. Unfortunately, many become tied to someone for life after they become pregnant. Then it can be eighteen long years of hell, or longer. Added to that, the families also end up having to deal with the drama. Such is the case in Love Trumps Game, as a grandmother has to put her life on the line to protect her grandchildren from their insane father. I hope that you enjoy this excerpt and will give the book a chance. Blessings, Zane

BOOK DESCRIPTION

After her daughter's disappearance, a world-weary grandmother becomes the guardian of her two street-wise grandchildren -- but their demented, no-good father will do anything to get them back.

After twenty-nine years of marriage, Hattie has paid her dues. She's now retired and looking forward to enjoying her peaceful golden years. Unfortunately, her calm life is changed forever when her daughter Neema mysteriously disappears and she finds herself to be the sole guardian of her two unruly grandchildren. To make matters worse, their crazed father, Topps Jackson, is determined to get them back.

A ruthless drug dealer, Topps runs a dangerously lucrative drug trafficking operation. Now Topps wants to bring his young son into the business at an early age. The only person giving him grief and standing in his way is Hattie Sims. Grandmother or not, Hattie has to go.

Driven away by his constant threats, Hattie is forced to live her life on the run, depending on friends and family members to shield her and two grandchildren from danger. But there seems to be no place to hide from a monster like Topps Jackson. Hattie's options are running out. Soon Topps will find her. Realizing that she can't run forever, Hattie decides that enough is enough. She decides to stop running and face the monster for the last showdown.

EXCERPT OF LOVE TRUMPS GAME by D. Y. Phillips

Have you ever been in the same room with a monster?
Did you see how he did it? How he used fear as his weapon?
Could you smell, or see, death coming in his eyes?
What Hattie Sims saw when she came out from the bathroom of her home was a tall, muscular man standing in her living room. Her breath caught in her throat. She could have kicked herself for not remembering to lock that metal security door. After all, wasn’t that what it was for? To keep devils and monsters out?
“Why are you in my house?”
Topps Jackson was no stranger. Still, she hadn’t liked or trusted him from the first time she had laid eyes on him. Something about his eyes; they were dark and threatening. He had nice lips but rarely smiled.
“Chill out, Mama Hattie. I come in peace.” A toothpick was restless between his lips. Sneaky-looking eyes panned around her room as if he were casing the place.
“Your type ain’t welcome here.” Hattie refused to let her nervousness show. “And I’m not yo’ mama.”
He was dressed entirely in black. Large, muscular arms seemed more like thick, brown tree trunks protruding from the expensive jersey that he wore. “Good thang you not, or you’d be dead by now.”
It was probably ridiculous for her to attempt to manually remove him. She was a petite woman with delicate features. Still, Hattie straightened her back and stood her ground with the father of her grandchildren. His bodacious visit was what she got for not locking her metal security door; thinking that the delivery boy would be there soon with her grocery order.
“What is it you want? Say what you want and get out. You got no business being here.”
“Now see, that ain’t no way to be treating family.” Unfazed by her annoyance, Topps Jackson ambled over to table and picked up a wood-framed photo of her daughter, Myra. “Pretty,” he said, then grunted. He placed the frame back and ran a finger along the top of the table. “A little dusty in here. You might wanna take care of that when I leave.”
“Look, if you’re looking for Neema, she ain’t here.”
“Not looking for Neema. Looking for you; the mama that keeps putting nonsense in Neema’s head. You know, that shit about taking my kids and moving away.” Topps sniffed, looked around her old, cozy living room. It was clean, but worn-looking. He frowned like it was a shame to have an average existence with no frills.
Hattie couldn’t imagine what Neema saw in him. True, he was tall, handsome, cunning and, from what she’d heard, drug-dealing rich. He had materialistic wealth, yet, he represented everything a mother should warn her daughter about. Stay away from men that degrade women. Men that hurt women. Stay away from men on the opposite side of the law. Stay away.
“Like I said, you have no business being here.”
“I disagree. I feel like this. If my kids spend a lot of time over here, I need to know what’s up. How you hanging. You know what I’m saying, don’t you?” All six feet of man turned and slowly walked down her hallway, padding along her carpet in his expensive-looking black sneakers. “How many bedrooms you got here, ole lady?”
“You listen here, young man…” Hattie was right behind him, clutching the collar of her floral housedress. “You need to leave.”
“You gotta man up in this mutha?” Topps inquired as he opened doors and surveyed one room after another. “What? No nigger laying that pipe down? That explains a lot.”
“That’s not your business,” Hattie snapped. The nerve of this fool; talking this way to me.
“That’s how I feel when you stay all up in my business with Neema. See…” He grunted, looking down at her. “If you had a man tapping that ass, you wouldn’t have that problem.”
“Neema’s my daughter. I gave birth to her; not you.”
Topps turned to get up in her face. “I don’t care if you shot Neema out your wrinkled, gray-covered ass twice. She’s my boo-bitch now. Mine; so get over it.”
“I’m calling the police,” she said.
And she would have, but he was blocking the narrow hallway with his bulky frame. She could smell the toothpaste and cologne he’d used earlier; that’s how close he stood. The monster grinned; eyes red and nostrils flared. He snatched up her hand like she was some bratty child trying to slip away.
“Ouch, you’re hurting me!”
“This the deal here. You need to stop putting crazy ideas in Neema’s head. She ain’t no child no more. She ain’t going no muthafuckin’ place. You understand what I’m saying?”
“Let me go!”
His dark-eyed stare was so intense, it could have made a baby cry. Hattie felt like howling herself. The scowl on his face promised worse.
“I’m warning you, ole lady. If I hear my boo-bitch say she wanna take my kids and move away from me one more time, I’ll have to come back. We’ll be doing some real talking next time. Know what I’m saying, ole lady?”
When she didn’t answer, he squeezed her hand harder, causing a hot sting to zip through her hand and up her elbow. The pain nearly brought Hattie to her knees.
“You hear me or not?” he prompted again.
“I…I hear you…” She wanted to scream. Not being able to do anything about his presence grated on her nerves. At five feet three, one hundred and eighty, she was no match.
“That’s better,” Topps said, smirking. Hate was in his eyes. He patted the top of her head, much the same he would have a pet dog. “See, mama-bitch. I’m not so bad, am I?” It could have almost been misconstrued as a term of endearment. Clearly, it wasn’t. All women were bitches to Topps Jackson. “You alright.” He released her hand.
“I want you out of my house.” Hattie massaged her hand while Topps removed a moist cloth from a packet in his pocket and wiped germs from his hands.
“Not so fast.” Topps made a show of checking out the ceiling, knocking on a couple of walls. “Not a bad house, but if my kids gonna be coming and going up in this muther, you need to be living better. Check this out. If you ever want to sell this dump, I’ll give you a hefty price. Enough to get you a new house that smells better.” Frowning, he sniffed a few times. “Smells like loneliness and mothballs in here. What you think?”
Hattie didn’t answer.
“Yeah. Just what I thought. You need some time to think that shit over, huh?”
Her front doorbell rang. It had to be the delivery boy with her grocery order.
Topps acted like he owned the place, the way he headed for the metal security door and greeted the delivery boy. “What’s up, my man? It’s all good. How much I owe you? You can sit those bags down by the door.”
He took a wad of cash from the pocket of his black sweatpants and peeled off two crisp hundred-dollar bills. “Keep the change, bro.”
Once the pimple-faced delivery boy was gone, Topps turned back to Hattie. “One last thing, ole woman. You mention this little visit to Neema and I’ll have to come back to see you. Maybe I can stay longer next time. Better yet, I might have to take my frustration out on Neema’s sweet little ass for bringing yo’ name up.”
Hattie waited until her security door banged shut, rushed over to it, and locked it. Frowning, she watched the monster walk to his big black vehicle, get in, and drive off.




















TWO



“I said, c’mon now. I don’t have all day, Brandon. You get yourself up those steps now! You, too, Raynita.”
Neema Jean wiped beads of sweat from her honey-brown forehead as she stomped up the dusty, concrete steps to her mother’s house with her two kids in tow. It had to be over ninety-nine degrees in the shade; add a summer breeze and it felt like she was inside somebody’s new convection oven. She used the ball of her fist to bang hard on the metal security screen door.
“Who is it?”
“Who you think it is?” Neema was surprised to find the door locked. In no time her mother was at the door unlocking it, then ambling back to her seat. Neema marched inside after her children. The heavy door banged shut behind her.
“Lock my door,” Hattie ordered.
Neema made a face. “Why? You ain’t been locking it.”
“Neema, I said, lock my door behind you.”
“Whatever.” Neema stood and blew out a weary breath. “Mama, can you watch my kids for a few hours?”
The Compton house was almost as suffocating as the August heat outside, only adding to her irritation. She fanned her face and looked around, like she was expecting her sister Myra to be lingering in the house someplace. Myra was always around, brown-nosing.
“Mama! I said, I need someone to watch my kids. I can’t find a job if I don’t have no babysitter.” Remembering to pout, Neema rolled her big brown eyes and folded her arms over her ample chest.
Hattie rocked a few times in her new La-Z-Boy chair. A recent gift for her forty-ninth birthday, it was the nicest piece of furniture gracing her living room. She was still a little upset about that fool, Topps, popping up at her house, but didn’t dare bring it up. Topps could make a believer out of Satan. If she mentioned his threatening visit, there was zero doubt that he would take it out on Neema. Even worse, possibly even take it out on the kids.
“Hi, Nanny.” Raynita waved her little hand.
“Hey, baby. How y’all doing?” Hattie barely blinked in Neema’s direction as she reached over to click on her tabletop fan. Cool air, mixed with heat, ruffled the hem of her thin housedress. “Come give Nanny a hug.”
The heat was enough to fight the devil, but Hattie remained unfazed. Surely she hadn’t been foolish enough to think a Saturday would slip by without Neema contacting her in need of something.
“Mama!” Neema stomped her foot. “I know you hear me talkin’ to you.”
“Not really,” Hattie said calmly, picking up a magazine to fan her face. “Child, I feel too blessed to be stressed today.”
Thank God, she had a high tolerance for drama; especially when it came to her youngest child, Neema Jean. “Drama” should have been Neema’s middle name. Hattie kept her eyes trained on her television set where Soul Train was on. The volume was lowered to a comfortable level. The sight of smiling faces and young bodies gyrating to music made her wish for younger days when no one used to barge into her home with demands.
“Humph,” she said aloud. Neema Jean knew better than to disturb her during one of her favorite programs.
“Mama, I need you to watch my kids!”
“Neema, I heard you the first time. You need to calm down and stop all that shouting up in my house. ’Bout to give me a headache.”
Neema Jean frowned. “Well?” she prompted with clear anguish in her voice. She assumed her ready-to-do-battle pose: eyes hard and locked, a hand to one hip. “Why you acting like you don’t hear me then? You watching ’em or not?”
“Not with that attitude, I’m not.”
Hattie barely looked up, almost as if a herd of wild horses through her living room couldn’t deter her attention. A smile tugged at her thin lips as she recalled a time when she could move her body like Soul Train dancers. Heck, she thought, I still got a few good moves at forty-nine. The thought made her grin.
“I told you, I have a job interview, Mama. You keep saying how I need to be independent and how I need my own job, but what I’m s’pose to do with these kids?” Neema made a gesture with her hand, before staring in the direction of her children. Six-year-old Raynita and seven-year-old Brandon stood quietly next to the faded-blue sofa. “Y’all put them backpacks down.”
“What for, Neema? They’ll be leaving right back out with you.” Hattie shot her full attention to her daughter. Neema Jean was her youngest of two; the spoiled one; the one that often behaved like the world and everyone in it owed her something. Frankly, after twenty-three years of that girl’s selfish and demanding behavior, Hattie was sick of it. “Nee, you should have thought about all that when you was laying up making them babies.”
“Does that mean you watching my kids or not?”
“You figure it out.”
Hattie sniffed. Darn if that girl wasn’t the spitting image of her father, Bomann. So much, in fact, that sometimes it pained Hattie to glance at her. It made it difficult to forget that six years ago, Bo had walked out on their marriage, claiming that he needed time to find himself. Just up and walked away from twenty-nine years of marriage and two kids like it had meant nothing. Well, not small kids, but grown girls that still needed parental guidance; especially their youngest, Neema. The last Hattie had heard, Bo was living somewhere in Louisiana with a thirty-year-old female, drinking heavily, doing drugs, and still trying to “find himself.”
“Tried to tell you that you weren’t ready for kids at sixteen, but you wouldn’t listen. Heck, you still need some rearing yourself.”
“Well, it’s too late to be saying stuff like that, Mama. They here now, so we have to deal with it. You gonna watch ’em?”
“We?” Hattie huffed.
“I said, are you watching ’em, Mama?”
“Lord, why me?” Hattie gazed upward and sighed. To have the luxury of sitting in her own house with total peace and quiet, alone; that’s all she really desired. “Nee, how many times I have to tell you that I’m not your readymade, instant babysitter? Don’t get me wrong here. I love them babies as much as you do, but heck, they spend more time here with me than they do with you. Yeah, I took an early retirement from my job, but that don’t mean I need you to give me a second career. I’m tired.”
“Mama, I’m tired, too.” Neema rolled her eyes and admired her recently done nails. “Tired of being broke. I don’t have nobody else. Daycare costs money that I don’t have ’cause I don’t have no job. You they grandmother. Why can’t you watch ’em while I go see about a job? You ain’t doing nothing.”
Hattie counted down from ten before responding. Three, two, one. “That’s beside the point. And you watch yo’ mouth; talking to me like that. You need to get on outta here with that craziness.”
“What? You want me to beg?”
Neema went around and stood in front of the television. Her red satin dress and black Jimmy Choo stilettos were one big blur to Hattie’s eyes and reeked of everything but a job interview. She could be such a pretty girl, but her ugly ways blocked it. Neema looked more like Beyonce with a bad weave and a bad attitude.
“I said no.” Her blood pressure was rising. Hattie could always tell when the twitching of a headache began at her temples. She shook her head. “Lord, this child is going to be the death of me.”
You would think that after raising two girls, dealing with a job she had hated for twenty-five years, not to mention a marriage that had turned loveless, she had paid her dues. But no. People still expected things; someone to sponge off, someone to clean up behind them, someone to cook for them, and someone, always, someone to watch their kids at the drop of a hat. Hell, no. She wasn’t having it.
Her girlfriend had been right about being too available for her grown offspring. If Jackie had gotten her way, they both would have been cruising the high seas, sipping on apple martinis, and making goo-goo eyes at younger men. Placing her glass down, Hattie leaned to the side, attempting to look around her daughter’s shapely frame. “Whoever heard of job hunting on a Saturday? Move out the way, Neema! You must think I tumbled off the turnip truck.”
“Dang, Mama.” Neema Jean sauntered over and flung herself down on the sofa. “You always do this to me.”
“And what would that be?”
“Give me a hard time,” Neema whined, then pouted like an eight-year-old. “You never do it to Myra when it comes to watching her kids. Never.”
“Neema Jean, please.” Hattie sighed, feeling exhausted. She knew it was only a matter of time before Neema started her whining. Whining, plotting, begging, lying, stealing, and scheming: These were her daughter’s best qualities. Sometimes it was hard to believe that she had raised both girls in the church.
“Don’t go blaming your sister because she takes care of business.” Myra was five years older, married to a doctor, and ran her own pet-grooming business. Neema was more like her father; spoiled, lazy and always looking for the easy way to get ahead. “And speaking of Myra, you need to ask her to watch the kids for you. Don’t you know how to do it? You babysit for her; she babysit for you. I’m sorry, but I’m not up to it this weekend. I need some rest.”
“Mama, pleeeaassse,” Neema whined, short of crying.
“Neema, I already said no. Now stop harassing me.”
Hattie wasn’t falling for it this time. No sirree. The last time Neema had claimed that she was going to look for a job on a Monday, she didn’t return for six days. Six whole days! Hattie hardly slept for worrying about the girl’s whereabouts. Not only that, but Neema Jean’s careless disregard had caused her to miss an important doctor’s appointment. Hattie would never understand how a woman could abandon her children for days at a time without so much as a phone call to check up on them. Interview, my foot.
“Bet you wouldn’t treat Myra like this.”
“Myra got sense enough to hire a babysitter; instead of lying to me about where she’s going.” If anything, this so-called job interview was nothing more than a ploy for Neema to go lay up somewhere with Topps. Topps Jackson was nothing but trouble with legs and, in Hattie’s opinion, entirely wrong for Neema. Her daughter could have done so much better, but repeating that wisdom to Neema had become futile. “Take ’em to their father. Let him watch ’em.”
“He can’t. He’s off on business.”
“I bet he is.” The business of harassing good Christian folks. She resisted bringing up Topps’ earlier visit.
Neema sighed. “Mama, don’t start that mess about Topps. He’s a fantastic father and you know it.”
Hattie bit her tongue lightly. “Try asking your sister to watch the kids.”
“You know it’s over an hour drive to Myra’s house.”
“And it’s a nice day for a long drive. Nee, stop making excuses.”
“Fine, Mama! I guess I can’t go to the damn interview then!” Like a spoiled child, Neema huffed and hopped up. She blew out a hard breath before stomping off in the direction of the small bathroom and then slammed the door.
“Well, you wanted to be a mother, so be one,” Hattie mumbled, then shouted in the direction of the closed bathroom door. “And don’t be slamming no doors in my house or using that kind of language with me! You not that damn grown!”
Smiling, Hattie went back to her program. Happy people with smiling faces were dancing to “Blow the Whistle” by Too Short. “I’m the one that shoulda never had kids,” she mumbled as she picked up her chilled lemonade and took a sip. She glanced over at her grandchildren, who hadn’t said another peep the entire time. They were standing like stiff, brown trees next to her loveseat.
As much as she hated to admit it, Brandon carried that same handsome hardness of his father. A head full of curly, black hair; piercing dark eyes; the same strong jaw line. Raynita, on the other hand, was the spitting image of Neema Jean with her honey-hued complexion, thin lips, and large brown eyes. A smile could bring the deepest dimples to her plump cheeks. Poor things.
“Nita, why you over there looking so sad?” It was cute, the way Neema kept the child’s hair in neat cornrows with colorful beads dangling from the ends. Their shoes and outfits looked expensive, making them well-dressed kids for a mother that didn’t have a job to speak of. “You two look hot and hungry. How ’bout some cold milk and some of Nanny’s homemade cookies?”
Raynita’s eyes lit up. “Nanny, you have chocolate chip? They’re my favorite.”
“I don’t want no damn chocolate chips,” Brandon said with a scrunched-up face. “Peanut butter cookies taste better.”
“Boy, you watch your mouth before you get a bar of soap in it. You start that cussing in my house and the next thing you’ll be getting is a leather strap on your behind!”
“Hell, I didn’t want no stupid cookies anyway.” Brandon stuck his small chest out. “I hate chocolate chips.”
“Hey! I said, watch your mouth.” Good grief. Hattie got up and headed to her refrigerator for some cold milk. Raynita and Brandon followed behind her like puppies. She fetched her cookie jar down from the shelf. “I don’t have chocolate chip cookies, but I have oatmeal raisin with walnuts.”
Both kids took a seat at her table. The day before she’d baked two dozen cookies, knowing her grandkids would be back over soon enough. “You’ve tried the rest, now try Nanny’s best.”
She ignored Brandon’s tight lip at the mention of a leather strap. The child didn’t know it, but her words were mostly idle threats. The only time she had felt justified to take a belt to one of them was the day she had found Brandon hiding in one of her closets playing with matches. The little fool had almost set her house on fire.
“What about you, Brandon? You sure you don’t want some cookies?” Hattie took pride in her baking and often contributed her baked goods to various church functions.
The boy put his head down.
“Suit yourself then.”
No matter how much she tried to instill good morals into her grandchildren, the more it seemed like a losing battle. For a seven-year-old, Brandon knew more curse words than she did, and didn’t mind using them. Raynita, on the other hand, was plagued with sticky fingers. More times than she could recount, the girl had been reprimanded for stealing small trinkets from some local store. Hattie had to hide her purse when Raynita was in her house.
“Brandon, you sure you don’t want some cookies?”
Brandon glared at her with tight lips.
“Nanny, can I have some more?” Raynita asked, after woofing down two cookies and half a glass of cold milk.
“I said, I don’t want no stupid cookies. Stop punking me!”
“Punking? What? Boy, please. Honestly, you starting to act more like your father every time I see you. And don’t take that as a compliment.”
Brandon frowned up at her. “Don’t be talking about my daddy either.” He stood up with balled fists.
“Boy, I’m forty-nine years old and this is my house. I can talk about what I want.” Hattie fought the urge to laugh. In her heart, she knew that they were good kids, but she also knew their tendency for waywardness stemmed from a poor environment. The Crenshaw District, the area where Neema lived, was infested with people who had long given up on the idea of doing better. As a result, many lived in poverty, their normal lives filled with baby-making for a payday, prostitution, drugs and violence. “Is that how your mama teaches you to behave?” Her tone softened. “Nita, of course you can have more cookies.” Then to Brandon, “And you, young man, you need to work on your attitude. You hear me?”
Hattie was waiting for the boy to say something smart back when she heard her screen door being closed gently. Just one more sassy word from that boy’s mouth and she’d whack him one good time to show that she meant business. Next came the sound of a car engine starting up, and the peel of tires spitting dirt as they sped away.

THREE

“What?! I know that trifling Neema didn’t tip out my…” Hattie put her cookie jar down, hurried to her security door, and stepped outside in time to see Neema’s 2006 black Range Rover burning rubber away from the house.
“Neema! You get yourself back here right now! Neema!” Furious, Hattie tried running a few seconds behind the car, but it was hopeless; not to mention dangerous with all the heat. Besides, she didn’t see the sense of giving her nosey neighbors something to talk about. Her legs ached, and smoke and dust stung her eyes.
“Damn her!”
After a cloud of dust cleared, she pursed her lips and headed back to her house to discover Raynita and Brandon arguing over a cookie.
“Cut it out, you two.” Hattie went straight to her phone to call Neema’s cell phone. How dare she pull a kid-dumping stunt?
“It’s mine, give it back!” Raynita screamed, about to clobber her brother.
“Make me, ho.” Brandon was daring her with a clenched fist. A cookie was clutched in his other hand. “Don’t make me hurt you!”
Hattie hung the phone up and stared in disbelief. “Brandon! What’s wrong with you?” This wasn’t the first time she’d seen the two argue over something so trivial, but it was the first time she’d heard the boy call his sister a derogatory name. “Young man, I don’t know what your problem is, but we don’t talk like that in this house.”
The two were at her house a mere three days ago and Brandon had seemed fine. She couldn’t imagine what had transpired enough to change his attitude in such a short time frame.
“Nanny, he snatched my last cookie!” Raynita yelled loud enough for her neighbors to hear. “He’s always doing stuff. That’s why I hate him.”
“Alright, you two. Nita, you don’t hate your brother, and Brandon, if that’s her cookie, give it back.”
Brandon tossed the bitten-off cookie to the table. “Crybaby. That’s why I can’t stand you either. You nothing but a snitch. That’s why Daddy likes me better than you.”
“Brandon, stoppit! Nita is your baby sister and you’re supposed to look out for her.” Lord have mercy. This was exactly what she wasn’t in the mood for—kids bickering back and forth, and acting like baby hoodlums. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but I’m tired and it’s too hot for all this.” She loved her grandkids to the core, but sometimes, after spending a day or two with them, she was ready to yank out her own hair.
“I can’t stand her; that’s why.” Brandon looked ready to throw some blows.
“This is what happens when mothers spare the rod.” Neema was forever claiming that she was doing her best to provide structure and discipline for her offspring, but Hattie was having a hard time seeing the evidence..
Brandon yelled, “It’s too hot in here! I wanna go back to Daddy’s house. I didn’t wanna come to your stupid house no way.”
“Boy, what in the world has gotten into you?”
“I hate snitches; that’s what.”
“Brandon, you do not hate your sister.”
“I do so, and when I go live with my daddy, I won’t even miss her telling butt.”
“Umph.” Hattie shook her head as she sauntered back over to the cookie jar and removed a few. “I know your mama ain’t foolish enough to let you live with that man.” It was wrong to bad mouth Topps to their faces, but she couldn’t help how she felt. Topps was notorious for his gang affiliations and drug dealing. Maybe even a few murders. People talked and she’d heard enough. It was difficult to feel warmth about a man who had allowed his own mother to starve to death. “If you wanted some cookies, all you had to do was ask. Whatever has gotten into you, you need to control it while you’re at my house. You hear me, Brandon?”
His only reply was a stubborn pout.
Raynita talked with a mouth full of cookie. “Mama said he acting mannish ’cause he spent the night at Daddy’s house. She said Daddy musta let him do weeds or somethin’.”
It felt like Hattie’s heart thumped and skipped two beats. She patted her chest. “Is that true, Brandon? Your father let you try drugs?”
“I ain’t no snitch like Nita.”
“Little boy, please. Snitching is when you talk to the police. I asked you a question. Did your father let you do drugs?” Hattie waited with a hand on her hip. It was hard to keep her face from frowning. So help me to God, if Neema is allowing that man to abuse this child, I will go crazy on her behind! “You can tell Nanny the truth, Brandon.”
Every now and then, the boy spent time with his father, but each time he returned, there was a remarkable change in his behavior for days. He acted funny, looked funny, and walked funny. Heck, sometimes Hattie thought Brandon even smelled funny after such visits.
“Dang, Nanny, why you all up in my bizness?” Brandon wiped crumbs from his mouth with a paper towel before tossing it to the table. The tone of his young voice suggested irritation.
Hattie raised a brow. “Boy, at seven, you don’t have no business.” She couldn’t control her kids’ lives, but if she could convince Neema to move to a better environment, meet a nice young man and settle down, maybe Brandon and Raynita might have a chance. True, Topps Jackson was the children’s biological father, but it didn’t give him a right to exploit them. It also didn’t give him the right to contribute to their budding delinquency.
“I’ll just say this. Your father might be crazy, but I know he ain’t that crazy, to be letting you try drugs. I better not hear something like this again, I know that.”
“I said, it’s my bizness, Nanny. Know what I’m saying?”
Brandon looked upset enough to fight, but it didn’t stop Hattie. If there was something she needed to know, she planned to find out one way or another.
“That’s it. Maybe you need to take time out to work on your attitude. Get yourself on in that bedroom.”
For a few seconds, there was a stand-off, two contorted faces glaring. Hattie couldn’t believe how defiant the child was behaving. She must have been getting soft because when her own kids were coming up, it wouldn’t take much for her to go get a leather belt or a switch from her peach tree out back and get busy. “Did you hear me, Brandon?”
He still didn’t move.
Hattie stepped closer. “Boy, I am not playing with you. I said, get yourself into that bedroom. Now!”
Without another word, Brandon got up and stomped from the room.
“Lord, give me strength. I’m getting too old for this mess.” Hattie forced herself to calm down. “Nita, what’s your mama’s cell phone number? I have it around here somewhere, but don’t feel like searching for it.”
“Uh…I don’t know. She didn’t tell me her new number.”
“What new number?” Grandmother or not, she needed to find out when Neema would be picking the kids up. The sooner she came back, the sooner she could get back to her peaceful existence. “When did she get a new number?”
Raynita stuffed the last of her cookie into her mouth. “Daddy bought her a new phone yesterday. He took her old phone and threw it away. He bought me and Brandon a phone, too, but I think I lost mine. I don’t know Mama’s new number.”
“Oh, that’s just great.” Hattie blew out a weary breath. “No way to reach your mother in case of an emergency.” Hattie shook her head. She didn’t understand it. A lot of the young mothers of today were certainly a different breed from when she was coming up. “Oh, well…” She sighed. “Maybe she’ll call later tonight to check on you two.”
As much as she hated the idea of it, she would have to wait it out. Knowing Neema, it could be days before she even called to see what was going on. And then again, she might not call at all. Hattie knew one thing—when she did hear from that girl, she planned to have a serious talk with her about Brandon and his visits to his father’s house. Topps Jackson shouldn’t have been allowed to have unsupervised visitation with stray puppies. Neema would probably say it was none of her business how she raised her kids, but Hattie didn’t care. When it came to her grandkids, she planned to make it her business.


If you enjoyed this excerpt of Love Trumps Game, please purchase it at your local bookstore or purchase it online at: http://www.amazon.com/Love-Trumps-Game-D-Y-Phillips/dp/1593092709/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1247602015&sr=1-1

Excerpt from Pure Paradise by Allison Hobbs

ZANE COMMENT

There is really not much more that I can say to praise Allison Hobbs. The fact that I have published more than ten titles by her says it all. If you are looking for the one woman on the planet who is actually freakier than me, Allison Hobbs is the one. If you have not read her books yet, you are really missing out. Read Pure Paradise and read all of her books. She is guaranteed to make you crave for more.

Blessings, Zane


BOOK DESCRIPTION

A deliciously decadent glimpse inside a day salon that also caters to the sexual fantasies of its affluent clientele.

Behind closed doors, the Pure Paradise salon secretly offers a more salacious menu of services for its discerning clients. While the company is raking in the dough, its proprietor Milan cultivates her own personal Rolodex of willing men and women who crave to indulge her most voracious desires. It would seem as if Milan has it all, but she wants more. For Milan, the ultimate catch would be the elusive Hilton Dorsey, an unreasonably handsome, former football player. But her relentless, irrational pursuit of the golden boy has caused Milan to neglect her financial benefactor, jeopardizing her budding empire. Will her obsession with Hilton Dorsey be her ultimate downfall? National bestselling author Allison Hobbs returns with another heart-thumping erotic adventure with Pure Paradise, a thrilling novel that caters to the sensual tastes of a diverse audience that is sure to leave readers begging for more.


EXCERPT OF PURE PARADISE by ALLISON HOBBS

CHAPTER 1

“What do you think? Do I look like a dominatrix?” Sumi asked Milan. Wearing thigh-high latex boots, a short black rubber dress with a zip-up front, and matching arm-length gloves, she held a black whip and struck a threatening pose. Sumi was an exceptional beauty, an exotic mix of Korean and Italian heritage. Her large doe-shaped eyes sparkled with sensuality. She twisted her pretty face into an exaggerated angry mask and cracked the whip.

Looking dangerously sexy, she wielded the whip like she was eager to thrash the crap out of a man and have him cowering and begging for mercy. Unwilling to admit that Sumi had captured the authentic look of a dominatrix, Milan gave her only a cursory glance. “You look cute,” Milan said with amusement in her tone.

“Cute?” Sumi questioned.

“It’s not Halloween, so what’s the deal? Did you get an invitation to a masquerade ball?” The thickly layered sarcasm was intended to let Sumi know that Milan refused to take her seriously.
Sumi’s red-painted lips turned down in disappointment. “Are you for real?” She glanced in the mirror and struck a pose. “I look hot.” Her words did not ring with conviction. “Don’t you think I look hot?”

Milan sneered. “I doubt that anyone would take you seriously enough to pay for your services. You look gorgeous. That dress is really sexy, but you’re not a convincing dominatrix.”

Sumi placed both hands on her hips, indignant.

“You are not a qualified dominatrix.” Milan went on, “so stop trying to add that to your job description. You’re my personal assistant and I want you to find a qualified person to do the job.”

“But you promised me the job—”

“That was pillow talk. I’m not responsible for the things I say when we’re in bed. Now, bring your sexy self over here and let me unzip that hooker dress.”

Sumi arched a brow. “Oh, now you’re calling me a ho?” There was more than a hint of defiance in her tone.

“If the shoe fits.” Ready to break the tension, Milan flung her a teasing smile. “Aw, don’t worry, Sumi. You’re not any ol’ ho—you’re my personal ho. Is that better?” Milan winked at her tauntingly.

Possessing a severe temper, Sumi stomped over to the bed where Milan lounged naked atop the satin sheets, waiting for her girl toy to join her. “I’m not your ho! I’m your lover. We’re in a relationship!”

Milan wanted to burst out laughing but Sumi was reaching her boiling point. And she was proficient in martial arts, so Milan switched to a placating tone. “Don’t I pay you a hefty salary?” she reminded her assistant. Sumi had not been a very good secretary—her typing skills were awful. Back when Milan merely managed Pure Paradise, Sumi was hired mainly as eye candy, a good advertisement. She was the look of perfection, sitting at her desk in an open area where potential clients could see her. Her exceptional beauty promised similar results to those willing to pay Pure Paradise’s steep prices.

When Milan became the owner, she’d elevated Sumi to the position of her personal assistant and Sumi had blossomed. She performed her numerous duties without complaint and with unfailing devotion. Now, she wanted to do more and Milan didn’t like it.

“Sure, you pay me a good salary, but I work very hard, so don’t insinuate that you’re giving me a handout.” Sumi was hurt, and her voice took on a higher pitch. “Every week I put in sixty hours or more and I never request overtime.”

Milan sucked her teeth. Screw Sumi and her freakin’ martial arts. She was taking her tirade much too far. “If you dared to ask for overtime, I’d fire you on the spot. I elevated you from a lowly secretary to your current prestigious position. You’re earning four times the amount you made before I took over Pure Paradise.”

Sumi shot a glance at the whip she still held, which made Milan feel a bit uneasy. “You practically run Pure Paradise! I allow you to strut around barking orders at the staff as if you were the actual owner of my establishment. What else could you possibly hope for?” She’d intended for her words to make Sumi melt but now Sumi was huffing and puffing, angrier than ever.

“I want respect. I’m doing the job of three people and I do it for you. I do it because I love you, Milan.”

What’s love got to do with it! Milan felt like belting out that old Tina Turner song but she couldn’t sing and Sumi didn’t have a sense of humor. It was sad but true; Sumi was confusing good sex with love. Though the moment was awkward, Milan wanted some of Sumi’s fabulous sex right now, so she forced her mouth to curl into what she thought would imitate a loving smile. “Unzip that dress, sexy, and bring your cute ass over here.”

Disappointment dimmed the playful sparkle that had shone in Sumi’s eyes when she first demonstrated her ability to crack a whip. “I’m not unzipping shit,” Sumi said with saucy impudence. “Why do you get such malicious pleasure from treating me like a plaything? I’m not your toy.”

Yes, you are! You’re my prized sex toy, my precious Sumi-toy! Milan was tempted to say, but she didn’t dare utter her inner thoughts while Sumi had hold of that damned whip.

Using amazing cunt tricks, Sumi had catered to Milan’s freakish desires, and had become a human replacement for Milan’s entire collection of battery-operated pleasure providers. She didn’t need them anymore. Sumi could get Milan off faster and with stronger eruptions than even her expensive, gold-plated fuck-buddy. And Sumi didn’t have to rely on a synthetic strap-on phallus to make Milan cum. She could do things with her cute little cunt that drove Milan to the brink of madness.

But the pretty little thing was so sensitive, Milan knew better than to piss her off by telling her to her face that she was nothing more than a sex toy. Sumi’s temper along with her Asian pride made her unpredictable. She was apt to fly off the handle and karate chop all Milan’s exquisite bedroom furniture. Knowing Sumi the way she did, it wouldn’t surprise her if the girl quit on the spot if Milan insulted her by calling her a “Sumi-toy.” Milan frowned as she was struck by the realization that it would be very difficult to replace her sexy Sumi.

With a placating smile, she gently grasped Sumi’s wrist and pulled her closer to the bed. “I’m sorry.” Milan tugged her wrist until Sumi dropped the whip and started unzipping, displaying pert breasts and a curvy petite body.

Sumi’s mons pubis, covered by a layer of jet black silky hair, was an alluring sight, causing Milan to unconsciously lick her lips.

Sumi bent and peeled down the top of her right boot. “Keep them on,” Milan insisted. She didn’t feel like waiting for her assistant to struggle out of the skin-tight boots. Besides, Sumi looked hot with the boots on.

Propping herself up on an elbow, Milan tugged Sumi forward until Sumi’s crotch was flush with her face. Playfully, Milan blew out a stream of cooling breath, blowing Sumi’s silken pubic hairs, making them flutter and lift until they parted and an olive-colored nub poked through.

Mmm. Milan’s mouth and her pussy started watering at the same time.

Flicking her tongue against Sumi’s little clit, she slowly broke her assistant’s resolve. She sucked softly, relishing the taste and texture as much as Sumi enjoyed getting her clit sucked. Milan sank her tongue into Sumi’s pot of tangy spice, which had a zesty bite that left a pleasant ginger-honey aftertaste. She ate Sumi’s pussy until Sumi was sufficiently stimulated.

It was her turn now. Milan lay flat on her back. Sumi climbed on top of her, fitting her petite body against Milan’s and running her hands along Milan’s lean mocha-colored limbs.

Milan grasped the sides of Sumi’s face and pulled her mouth to hers. Sumi closed her eyes blissfully as Milan slid her tongue between her lips, sharing the ginger-honey flavor.

Moaning, Sumi responded to Milan’s pussy-flavored kiss with slow gyrations and soft pelvic thrusts. With each thrust, Milan’s legs spread a little wider, giving Sumi more access to her opened treasure chest.

“Fuck me,” Milan murmured.

Lifting up, Sumi gazed at her lovingly as she stroked the bushy hair that covered Milan’s mons. She parted Milan’s pussy lips and toggled her clit until it moistened, became engorged, and darkened to a deeper hue. Sumi was gearing up for the good part.

Milan inhaled deeply as she readied herself. Sumi’s pussy tricks gave a stiff dick some hellified competition.

She straddled Milan, her silky snatch brushing against Milan’s bushy forest. Sumi aligned her parted pussy with Milan’s sensitive clit, and then sank down, clamping her tight pussy muscles around Milan’s swelling pleasure bud.

Each pussy bite from Sumi was thrillingly electrical. Sumi would soon take her over the edge. Milan had her share of sexual experiences with other women, but the pussy she’d been acquainted with couldn’t compare to Sumi’s. Milan had no idea how Sumi had trained her pussy to snap the way it did. Maybe it was all that exercising and martial arts training that made Sumi’s cunt so unusually agile, like a pair of lips, only tighter and with more grip.

With blissful expectation, Milan took in a deep breath. Using rapid vaginal clenching, Sumi’s strong cunt muscles seized Milan’s taut clit, tightening and then releasing, taking a series of nibbling pussy bites that stimulated Milan’s hot spot better than a mechanical device.

Milan shuddered and bit down on her bottom lip, bracing herself for the inevitable torrent of hot sexual release.

“Wait! Please, Sumi! Don’t make me cum yet!” Temporarily out of her mind with sexual tension, Milan was not too proud to beg.

Once the pleading began, the tables turned in Sumi’s favor. On top, her expression confident, Sumi lowered her head. “Kiss me, bitch.”

Helplessly, Milan sought Sumi’s lips; all the while frantically twisting her hips, silently pleading for more tantalizing pussy bites.

“You need my cunt, don’t you, bitch?” Sumi demanded angrily, nostrils flaring.

“Yes!” Milan gave a cry of agonized joy. Her hand touched the small of Sumi’s back, pressing her small breasts against her own. Their peaked nipples rubbed together, creating more excitement and friction. Sumi fastened her walls even tighter around Milan’s protrusive sex organ, making it throb, making Milan gasp with pleasure.

“Slow down, I don’t want to cum. Not yet,” Milan said, her voice hoarse with passion. But her body movements spoke otherwise. Undulating, she lifted up and then ground her distended female organ even deeper into Sumi’s extraordinary pussy.

Dispensing vicious cunt snaps, Sumi pulled and twisted Milan’s pearl of passion,, giving her pleasure so unbearable, Milan had to bite down on her bottom lip to keep from screaming.
Sumi palmed Milan’s taut buttocks, pulling her closer, intensifying the pussy friction as she fucked Milan senseless. “I don’t like sharing you and I shouldn’t have to. Nobody can fuck you like I do. That pussy is mine. All mine!”

Having Milan at a sexual disadvantage, Sumi put her in an awkward position. “You know how much I love you, Milan. Why can’t you love me back?” Her expression was a blend of lust, love, and sorrow. Lust, the dominant emotion, was spectacularly expressed as she clenched and grinded against Milan’s feminine region. With her swiftly rotating hips, her snapping pussy pulling on Milan’s engorged clit, Sumi demanded, “Do you love me?”

Milan was out of her mind with passion and willing to say anything to keep Sumi giving up the cunt. “Yes, I love you. You know I do,” she whispered. Milan felt confused by her own words, unable to distinguish fact from fiction. She actually felt something close to love as an orgasm pulsed through her. But survival had also kicked in. If she didn’t return Sumi’s declaration of love, the little hothead was apt to hop off her pussy, throw on her clothes, and storm out into the night, leaving Milan hanging in an awful state of sexual duress.

Holding Sumi and pressing her down, assisting her in using her hot-red snapper to get a tighter grip on her own peaked flesh, Milan’s could feel a fiery sensation, simmering at first, and then burning wildly through her lower region. She squeezed Sumi’s delicate shoulders, quivering and moaning as she convulsed and then exploded.

Keeping up her rhythm, Sumi kept winding her awesome little body until she joined Milan in soul-shuddering ecstasy.

Finally catching her breath, Milan smiled sardonically and stroked Sumi’s silky hair. “You’re getting out of hand, Sumi,” Milan whispered, her voice raspy with residual lust. She pulled Sumi’s silky hair hard enough to inflict pain and to remind her who had the real control in their relationship.

“Ow! Stop, I hate that rough stuff.” Sumi rolled her eyes and then began to sulk, begrudgingly relinquishing the power to Milan.

Back in full control of her sanity, Milan gave Sumi’s hair another yank. “Ow!” Sumi screamed and moved away from Milan’s reach. “I’m going home,” she spat.

“Go! I got what I wanted,” Milan fired back.”

“You’re such a bitch. I hate you.” She leapt from the bed and grabbed the dominatrix dress.

“I thought you loved me.” Milan laughed tauntingly while Sumi angrily pulled on the dress and yanked the zipper up. With her head tilted in thought, Milan watched Sumi. She seriously had to figure out a way to get more control of her hot-tempered assistant. Clearly, the surly little sexpot needed a few lessons in obedience training. Milan had tried and tried to break Sumi’s will, but she had only a loose grasp on the spitfire. Thank goodness she usually had sense enough to placate the pussy-snapping hussy until she gave Milan the blood-rushing climaxes she craved.
Sumi stormed out of Milan’s bedroom and stomped down the long corridor. Milan jumped out of bed and ran behind Sumi. “Sumi,” she yelled. Sumi turned around, her expression hopeful.

“You forgot something!” Milan tossed the black whip at her and slammed her bedroom door.





CHAPTER 2

Pure Paradise Day Spa with its enchanting ambience—handpicked flowers, potted foliage, tinkling music, flickering candlelight, and intoxicatingly fragrant scents that wafted throughout the establishment—appeared to live up to its name. Swathed in comfy robes and slippers, the clientele looked pampered and relaxed. They milled about, sipping mimosas or herbal tea as they waited to be indulged with a Chocolate-Bliss facial, a sea kelp body massage, hot stone therapy, hydrotherapy, waxing, manicures, pedicures, or any of the numerous services offered.
On a lower level, private fantasy theme rooms equipped with costumes and props were provided for couples. A fantasy session was ridiculously costly, but affluent patrons didn’t mind spending big bucks to indulge their freaky imaginations.

In a separate room on the lower floor, Milan Walden, owner of Pure Paradise, greeted prospective clients, a husband and wife, with a very tight smile. Compared to her lavish office suite upstairs, the consultation room was rather smallish. She felt boxed in and out of her element in the modestly furnished office. Actually, Sumi should have been interviewing this couple, but Sumi was visiting a local dungeon, observing Mistress Veronique, a premier dominatrix, at work. If the woman was as cruel and intimidating as reputed, Sumi was to offer her a contract to work as a consultant at Pure Paradise.

Milan sighed. She needed two assistants. No, strike that. The way her business was booming, she needed three or four assistants. Sumi was not going to like sharing the power, but she’d just have to deal with it. The poor dear was being stretched to capacity as it was, and business was suffering. Milan corrected her thought. No, business wasn’t suffering…Milan was. She absolutely despised having to interact with clients.

Yet matters of a sexual nature were too delicate to be handled by any staff member other than Sumi. Admittedly, her assistant was good at her job—so good, she thought she was capable of taking on the additional job title of “in-house” dominatrix. What a laugh. Sumi didn’t have any real power. Milan allowed her assistant to execute her precise orders: reprimanding, hiring, and firing on Milan’s behalf. But the girl didn’t have a dominant bone in her cute little body. What a pity.

Lately, Sumi had started behaving like a diva. Milan didn’t like her assistant’s new attitude, so today she’d sent Sumi on a mission that would give her a badly needed reality check. After observing an authentic dominatrix at work, with her foot pressed down on a naughty slave’s neck, Sumi would come to her senses and realize she was too delicate to really crack a whip. Sumi needed to get rid of that latex dress, the boots, and the whip and devote all her attention and concentration on angling her snapping pussy around Milan’s ripened clit.

She was suddenly struck with a brilliant idea, a scheme that would put Sumi in her place. Milan shook her head, marveling at her own sheer genius. She gazed at the paperwork and then returned her attention to the oddly paired couple who sat on the other side of the rather ordinary desk. The plain oak desk made her yearn for her custom- designed power desk. Her desk screamed success! Made of six different types of exotic wood, it cost seventy-two thousand dollars—as much as some people spent on a luxury car. It was a spectacular piece of furniture and was most fitting for an extraordinary woman such as herself.

Milan glanced at her surroundings and wrinkled her nose. As soon as she got rid of this bothersome pair, she’d make a mad dash to her elegant office suite.

The wife, an attractive, slim blonde, had a snooty air about her and she had irked Milan on sight. She looked to be in her late twenties, professionally attired in pearls and a nicely cut business suit. The husband, on the other hand, swarthy with a big belly, was considerably older than his wife. Additionally, he had the unpolished look of a laborer and wore a T-shirt bearing the logo of a roofing company. The man was totally icky!

“Well, it looks like everything is in order,” Milan said, looking down at the paper work on the desk. “You’ve passed our requirements with flying colors.” She didn’t smile and maintained a business-like demeanor, sitting erect with her lips pursed, her eyes intense, her expression serious. She found the ill-matched couple nauseating and couldn’t muster any more than the same tight smile. “So…which fantasy interests you?”

“I own a roofing company. There’s good money in roofing, but I have to put in a lot of ridiculously long hours—”

Do I look like I give a shit? “And your point is?” Agitated, Milan glanced down at the application again. “Mr. Tamburro,” she said with a sigh.

“I’m getting to the point,” the husband said brusquely.

Milan searched the wife’s face, hoping for some type of intervention, but the wife squirmed and refused to meet Milan’s agitated gaze.

“I put my wife through six years of college,” the husband went on. “She has a master’s degree in business. I don’t claim to be a scholar, but I make a lot more money than she’ll ever dream of earning.” Mr. Tamburro looked at his attractive wife with contempt. The wife gave Milan a “See what I have to put up with” look, which Milan chose to ignore.

Mr. Tamburro would be footing the bill for the couples’ fantasy so Milan decided to reserve her attention for him.

“You’ve looked over the brochures,” Milan said with a sigh. Her patience was dwindling quickly. “Have you made a selection?”

A crimson shade of rage suddenly tinged Mr. Tamburro’s olive complexion. Clutching the glossy brochures, he blurted, “My bitch of a wife cheated on me! Not once…but twice…and with her co-workers.” He glared at his wife. “Seems she’s developed the hots for the suit-and-tie type. I’m not good enough for her anymore.”

“That’s not true,” Mrs. Tamburro whined.

Milan waved her hand, cutting off the adulterous wife and returning her attention to the bill-footing husband. “Is that what you’d like—a fantasy that involves wearing a suit and tie?”

Keeping the annoyance out of her tone was difficult. She’d given the couple a brochure with every fantasy Pure Paradise offered. She hadn’t anticipated taxing her brain to come up with an impromptu suit-and-tie fantasy session for the kooky couple.

”Hell no! I want her to get a sound spanking for cheating on me.” He rolled his eyes at his wife. The wife tried to maintain an impassive expression but couldn’t. Cringing with embarrassment, she dropped her gaze. Her cheeks took on a pink tint.

“Oh!” Milan perked up. “Well, you’ll be delighted to know we have a special room for corporal punishment. It’s equipped with an array of thrashing devices from paddles and hair brushes to whips and canes. I’ll just need you both to sign a consent form.” She pushed the consent form across the desk.

“Not so fast. There’s a slight hitch.” Mr. Tamburro’s angry expression changed to embarrassment. “I can’t do the spanking.” He cast a warm gaze toward his wife. “I love my wife. Besides, I wasn’t raised to mistreat or put my hands on a woman. I behave like a gentleman even when my wife takes it upon herself to carouse around like a stinking whore.”

Milan sighed in exasperation. “Okay, if you’re not in the mood for a paddling session, which fantasy interests you?” She spoke through gritted teeth. Pure Paradise offered a vast array of sex services but she’d be damned if she’d waste her breath with a high-spirited sales pitch. She would have never allowed the couple in the consultation room had she known they had yet to select a service.

It was obvious that the communication at Pure Paradise was badly flawed. But not for long. Milan would start interviewing new assistants immediately. She’d hire as many as she thought necessary to ensure Pure Paradise operated smoothly. Sumi would just have to get over herself and deal with some competition.

Milan stood. “Why don’t you two go home and look over the brochures again. When you’ve made a decision, call Sumi Cranston, my assistant.” She forced a smile and cut a dismissive glance toward the door.

“I’ve made up my mind and I’m prepared to pay in advance,” Mr. Tamburro said, leaning forward as he pulled his wallet out of a back pocket. He whipped out a credit card.

Milan ignored his offer of payment. She remained standing, hinting that the interview was over. “Mr. Tamburro. I’m a busy woman. You and Mrs. Tamburro should go home and discuss the service that suits your needs.”

“I already told you. My wife needs a good spanking.” He looked at his wife for confirmation. Wearing an expression that looked as pained as if she were being flogged at that very moment, the wife gave a curt nod.

“Like I said, I’m too much of a gentleman to hit my wife, but I’m willing to pay top dollar to get the job done.”

The wife gasped. Suddenly interested, Milan jerked her head toward the husband. “You want someone else to do your dirty work?”

Looking embarrassed, he nodded.“I’ll have to bring in a trained master and that will double the cost.”

“Not a problem,” Mr. Tamburro said.

“Honey,” the wife whined, her eyes wide. “I think we should discuss this matter privately.”

“My mind is made up,” he barked at his wife. “Either you get your tail whipped or go get yourself a lawyer.”

It was an unusual request. Most couples used the themed rooms that were listed in the brochure. They enjoyed experimenting with the equipment to indulge their perverted fantasies. She could have turned down Mr. Tamburro’s request, but Milan was eager for the challenge.
She cleared her throat. “Mr. Tamburro,” she said softly, “we offer several choices…” The husband nodded for Milan to continue. “There’s verbal humiliation with a light thrashing—a sort of erotic spanking, which is what I recommend—”

“What else do you offer?” he eyed Milan intently.

“Well…” Milan took an excited breath as she struggled to contain her own sexual arousal. The topic was quite stimulating and had her juices flowing. “We also offer a more harsh punishment. Your cheating spouse would be bare-assed and given a severe spanking.” Mr. Tamburro’s face lit with interest.

“You should be aware that a severe spanking will leave residual welts and bruising,” Milan said casually, though her mind was racing to come up with a more sadistic form of punishment. And there was a problem.

She didn’t have a trained master. All her employees were certified in massaging, aromatherapy, polishing toenails, and all sorts of therapies that didn’t meet Mr. Tamburro’s requirements. Hopefully, Sumi would get Mistress Veronique to sign the contract. If the woman was a true dominatrix she would be willing to dispense punishment to women as well as men.

The husband sat on the edge of the chair, rubbing his chin excitedly. “I want her to get a harsh spanking,” he said, nodding and looking vindicated. “The full treatment! Whatever it costs, I’m willing to pay.”

The wife jerked back, gawking at her husband. Her words came out in a sputter. “I’m not, uh, sure about this. We really have to talk.”

Milan ignored her. “Would you like to sit in on the session, Mr. Tamburro?” A devilish smile played on Milan’s lips.

“I sure would!” he exclaimed as he gleefully rubbed his hands together. The wife groaned. A sudden shadow fell over the husband’s face. “No. I couldn’t just sit back and watch while some sadistic fella beat the crap out of my wife.”

The wife brightened perceptibly.

Milan shrugged. “I was actually going to have a woman spank your wife. A skilled dominatrix.”

“A woman!” Mr. Tamburro reared back and snorted in disapproval. “What kind of pain could a woman inflict? If I’m going to spend top dollar for punishment, I want my money’s worth. I want a man to beat her. A big black buck!” he added and glared at his wife.

Where the hell would she find a big black buck who was a trained master? Gerard, her former trainer, came to mind, and she instantly tried to dismiss him from her thoughts but couldn’t.
At Milan’s insistence, Gerard’s benefactor, the evil Mistress Ming, had been financially crushed. Ming’s illegal “training center,” along with her wealthy husband’s chain of fitness centers had been gobbled up by one of Maxwell Torrance’s corporations. Maxwell Torrance, billionaire and tycoon, was Milan’s personal sex slave.

Maxwell had put Ming out of business, sent her packing. Milan felt a shiver of delight imagining the arrogant hussy back in China, living in poverty. Stripped of her jewels and couture wardrobe, and all her money, Ming was hopefully working her fingers to the bone in some rice field. Though Milan had no idea what had become of Ming, imagining the evil wench sweating as she toiled for a few coins was a delicious fantasy.

Gerard? He was most likely still in the States. Oddly, her heart didn’t race. She was over Gerard. Her heart was set on someone else—and once again, the man she’d set her sights on was playing hard to get. Milan sighed. She sure knew how to pick them.

Returning her thoughts to the present dilemma, she smiled at the couple. “Mr. and Mrs. Tamburro, as you know, Pure Paradise has designed numerous couples’ fantasies, but we’re flexible and are fully capable of tailoring a program that meets your needs. Don’t worry, Mr. Tamburro, you don’t have to go in the room with your wife. You don’t even have to accompany your wife here. I understand your unwillingness to view her chastisement firsthand, but might I suggest that you accept the complimentary DVD of her punishment session? I highly recommend that you and your wife view the DVD together, and often. Reliving the pain and humiliation repeatedly should discourage your cheating wife from engaging in future adulterous affairs.” Milan amazed herself with her brilliant creativity. Feeling proud of the sales pitch that she made up as she went along, Milan beamed at the married couple.

The wife cringed with horror.

“Oh, boy. That sounds like a winner,” Mr. Tamburro gushed, jubilant. “I’ll get a lot of pleasure watching the DVD with her.” He scratched his head. “How many times should we watch it?”
“Every night before sex,” Milan responded quickly.

“We don’t have sex every night,” Mrs. Tamburro stated, balking at the idea.

“It’s not too late to start. This woman here…” he pointed to Milan. “She’s a sex therapist and she knows what she’s talking about.”

Sex therapist! Sounds good to me. “You absolutely need to have intercourse with your wife on a daily basis, but without tenderness,” she cautioned, taking her new title seriously.

“You hear that, hon? I don’t want to hear anything about headaches or any talk about your menstrual cycle. No excuses. I want my daily ration of sex without a word of complaint.”

“Oh, fabulous,” the wife said sarcastically.

To Milan’s satisfaction, the deal was about to be sealed. She bestowed Mr. Tamburro with her most winning smile. “Sign right here.” She pointed to the lines marked with an X and sat down as the husband perused the form. He affixed his signature and then handed the pen to his wife.
Picturing the prissy Mrs. Tamburro getting her ass spanked made Milan terribly horny. The unmistakable twitching between her legs was getting stronger and more demanding by the second. She needed to get rid of the Tamburro’s and take care of her personal situation. “We can accommodate you next Wednesday at two.”

The wife consulted her BlackBerry and frowned. “I have an important meeting on that date. Do you have another opening—can you fit me in after five?” Her trembling tone pleaded for a different time slot.

“There you go…putting that friggin’ job before our marriage.” Mr. Tamburro gave his wife a stern look. “Listen up, Mrs. Cheater, I want you to cancel that meeting and get your buns over here at two o’clock on the dot. If you can’t make it, well, I guess I’ll see you in divorce court. I’m serious. Our prenup protects my money. You won’t get one single dollar. Let’s see how far you get with your measly salary.” He sneered at his wife and then looked at Milan. “Her job is nothing but show,” he said to Milan. “With all those degrees I paid for, she still doesn’t earn the kind of money she enjoys spending.” He poked himself in the chest. “I’m a wealthy man, but I don’t have to wear fancy clothes to broadcast how much I’m worth.”

At the mention of the prenuptial agreement, Milan felt an uncharacteristic stab of sympathy for the wife. Over a year ago, she experienced the humiliation of being forced to sign an outrageous prenup and could relate to Mrs. Tamburro’s dilemma. But that was all behind Milan. She’d come out on top. Now large and in charge, Milan defied anyone to try to tell her what to do. She owed a thriving business and, as shocking as it seemed, she had billionaire business tycoon Maxwell Torrance by the balls. Literally. She owned the man. She made him wear an engraved collar of ownership as proof.

Nothing had been handed to her. Unlike Mrs. Tamburro, Milan had overcome many obstacles to get to her station in life. Withdrawing her sympathy, she turned cold eyes toward the wife. “Do you agree to the two o’clock appointment?”

Tears clouded Mrs. Tamburro’s eyes. She turned to her husband. “I don’t think this is necessary. I’ve learned my lesson. Please, sweetheart.”

“It’s your choice…take the whipping or we’re getting a divorce.” Mr. Tamburro was adamant.
Resignedly, Mrs. Tamburro nodded. The husband gave Milan a conspiratorial wink and then tried to hand Milan his credit card. Milan recoiled as if handling the payment process would tarnish her. “Pay at the front desk, please,” she said with a grimace.

The moment the couple left the consultation room, Milan picked up the phone and called security.

“Royce, there’s an emergency in the basement consultation room. Get down here, fast!”

If you enjoyed this excerpt, I hope that you will purchase the book at your local bookstore or purchase it online at: http://www.amazon.com/Pure-Paradise-Presents-Allison-Hobbs/dp/1593092245/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1247601239&sr=1-1

Excerpt of Sin in Soul's Kitchen

ZANE COMMENT

I first read the self-published version of Sin in Soul’s Kitchen several years ago and wrote a review for it on Amazon.com, something that I rarely do. The book is HOT, the writing is poetic, sensual, and stimulating. I hope that you will give this book a chance. You will certainly not regret it.


BOOK DESCRIPTION

A sexy, psychological thriller that explores why men and women commit sinister crimes of passion, do the most hateful things in the name of love, and cook up schemes to punish one another when sweet romance turns sour. If you can't stand the heat, stay out of soul's kitchen.
Groomed for "the good life" by his affluent family, rebellious Thaddeus Carmichael has a new MBA and a spicy, new vision for his future. Unfortunately, he is also embroiled in a power struggle with the lady in his life -- the ever-fabulous, ever-ambitious Chelsea Fuller. She wants a perfect marriage. He wants artistic freedom.
Andrew Oyé is a journalist, author, screenwriter and publisher. A graduate of Stanford and Vanderbilt Universities, Oyé currently lives in Hollywood, California, where he works on TV, film, media and marketing projects. Visit the author at www.myspace.com/drewoye Thad insists "happily ever after" is a state of mind, and he questions the state of Chelsea's mind. Over time, their relationship is seasoned with deceit, betrayal, and obsession -- ingredients for a bitter existence. Bad things happen to good people who wrestle with destiny, so Thad's pursuit of his passion over his fate with Chelsea could be a recipe for disaster.
With pulsating dialogue and vivid backdrops, Sin in Soul's Kitchen is a dramatic voyage into sensuality and suspense, vibrating with cultural ambiance, captivating encounters, and riveting twists in a world of intrigue, intimacy and insanity.

EXCERPT FROM SIN IN SOUL’S KITCHEN
As the sky deepened to gunmetal gray, streetlamps flickered on like birthday candles in celebration of the rain's end. Still tense, Thad walked down Seventh Avenue, tucking in a new shirt that had replaced his devoured one. Over the horizon, he saw Nubian Rhythm Kitchen. The golden neon sign rested on a hut-like awning, and a marquee announced "Spoken Word Open Mike Night."
Suddenly, his shoes could fly again. Thad’s pace quickened to a sprint, his boots licking the wet sidewalk in time with his heartbeat. He skillfully dodged random puddles oozing from the cracked sores of the pavement like pus filled with more of Chelsea’s accusations and assaults. Reaching NRK’s entrance out of breath, Thad admired his personal Jerusalem from the outside until the aroma of Jamaican sausage lured him inside.
Stacking glasses and coasters at the bar, Melvin insisted, "Virgil, when are you gonna slip me some of the bread you cats are makin’ with this place? Let me get some of that stash."
"Stash? Fool, we opened the place yesterday," Virgil snapped, fiddling with the cash register. "We’re not even turning a real profit yet. Besides, it’s not just my money, so I’m not giving you a damn thing."
Melvin threw a stack of napkins at the back of Virgil’s head. "You’ve got brass balls now that you’re hangin’ with these pretty college cats?" Melvin snatched Virgil around, pushing his five-foot-seven frame against Virgil’s six-foot-two mass until the register slammed shut. "You betta watch the tone you take with me, sucker!"
"Chill out, Mel," Virgil whispered through frozen lips, his breaths turning to quick heaves. "Look, the guys are right over there. Don’t make a scene."
Melvin looked across the room, where Thad stood talking to Kahlil and Saadiq as they dragged big couches from backstage and arranged them around a microphone and stool in the center of the club. Melvin slowly took the heat off Virgil, backing away and wiping the spit from his lips with his sleeve. "You may be three times bigger than me, but I’m still your big bro, Virgil, and I’ll kick your ass if you keep poppin’ off at the mouth."
Virgil stared into his brother’s beady eyes. "You’re already living with me and Roz. I got you this bartending gig. What else do you want from me, Mel?"
"First off, don’t forget who was feedin’ your ass back home, before you went big-time bourgeois, playin’ that sissy music with the Boys’ Choir of Harlem over there. Yeah, I’m livin’ off of you and your bitch now, but I’ll be gettin’ out of y’all’s place in a minute. As a matter of fact, my boys Cedric and Jojo mentioned comin’ up north to start somethin’ over in Jersey."
"Something like what?"
"Never mind that! All that matters is I’m strapped for cash, baby bro." Melvin’s eyes got tighter as he extended a hand low under the counter and waited with a frown on his face.
Breathing deeply, Virgil waited in a useless standoff for Melvin to drop his hand. The hand stayed. Virgil turned around and punched the register. The drawer shot out. Virgil snatched up two hundreds from the tray, slammed it shut, and slapped the crisp bills into Melvin’s palm.
"That’s right, baby bro. You calls those cats your blood brothers, but we’re real brothers, real blood. We’re family, and blood’s got to look out for blood." Melvin snickered as Virgil stomped away.
Saadiq adjusted the mike stand in the center of the club. "Talk to me, Thad."
"I called my parents and told them everything."
"What? Why the hell did you do that?"
"Because I want Chelsea to have the baby, and don’t give me any lip about it, Saadiq! I got enough of it from them. They think I should marry her."
"I didn’t say a word," Saadiq sang. "But I bet Big Pappy Carmichael lost it."
"My father's convinced I'm officially a crazy, rebellious child. Like I planned this," Thad replied, helping Kahlil set a bamboo bench before the mike.
"Are you going to marry her?" Kahlil asked, roping off the presentation area.
"I can’t do that and be happy. I'll be in my child’s life, not Chelsea’s. It's over."
With a satisfied smile, Saadiq went to the bar to burn incense as the leaders of the dinner crowd dwindled into the supper club. Ignoring the customers as they walked into the entrance, Virgil stood at the front door with his hands in his pockets, cussing like a sailor under his breath.
"Hey, Virgil, what’s up?" Thad asked, easing next to him.
"Nothing!" Virgil’s eyes didn’t leave the front door.
"O-kay." Thad paused. "Oh! This morning, we were looking for you–"
"Why are you guys always trying to trail me? I’m not obligated to check in with anybody. I’m not the one you need to keep tabs on anyway. Your man Rush is in the alley, and guess what he’s doing. That’s right. Puffing on hay. Why don’t you go chase him for a little while, huh?"
Virgil’s defensiveness prompted Thad to back off and approach Saadiq in the club instead. "What’s wrong with Virgil?"
"Don’t know. Why?"
"Never mind. Where’s Rush?"
"He’s out back with Benny partaking in a little ganja action."
"He knows I don’t like that, especially not here."
"Cut him a little slack. He told us not to tell you anyway." Saadiq pulled Thad aside. "Look, forget Rush. Did you make use of what I gave you this morning?"
"Why are you treating me like I’m in need of some kind of fix?" Thad gazed pensively at the entrance of the club. "The answer is yes. She’s supposed to meet me here tonight. I hope she shows. On second thought, I don’t." Thad pulled away from Saadiq. "I don’t know why the heck I called that girl."
"Sure you do." Saadiq patted Thad’s back. "When I met Asha, I knew she was perfect for you, man – sexy, good energy, talented, from worthy roots, right?"
"Most definitely, Asha’s good people. But I feel like I'm skipping the mourning period. I just ended a serious relationship. Saadiq, there’s a lot of emotionally charged stuff left between Chelsea and me."
"Explain that to that pretty little face over there." Saadiq pointed to the front door where Asha stood.
Thad barely moved. His feet took slow, uncertain steps, telling him to stop and think twice; but his leg muscles told his feet to pick up the pace, to walk him over and escort Asha away from the swelling crowd to a table in the corner.
After they ordered drinks, Thad cleared his throat and waited to see who should start. He sighed. "Asha, about last night. . ."
"You don’t owe me any explanations, Thad."
"Yes, I do. Chelsea and I just ended a long relationship, and I just discovered that she’s having my child. She feels she has a right to my time and attention, whereas I’m trying to move on from the idea of us as a couple."
"Well, are you going to support the baby?"
"Of course, by all means. Just clearing up any confusion."
"Oh, thank you." Asha smiled at the waitress who set a jumbo daiquiri in front of her. "I'm actually fresh out of a relationship myself. He was a real easygoing man from Nigeria. We danced together in Atlanta, and he taught me everything I know." Asha crossed her chocolate legs and looked down at her leather sandals. "Turns out, he was giving private lessons to a number of other girls in his class."
"Sorry to hear that. None of my relationships have ended due to the wandering eye. I guess that’s something to be proud of." Thad slid his mug of lager back and forth across the wood grain of the table. "Anyway, we’re both at similar junctions, right? Live and learn." He lifted his glass. "To new beginnings?"
Asha raised her daiquiri with both hands and clanked Thad’s mug. "Definitely. To new beginnings."
Thad sipped his drink, staring at Asha’s silver jewelry glinting in the mood lighting of the club. He bit his sore lip, trying to fight the feeling below his belt. "Tonight is open mike for poets. You do the spoken word thing?"
"Oh, no, no, no. I’m strictly dance. I express myself best through my body." Asha raised her arms in a swan-like motion, while Thad’s eyes agreed with her. "I don’t do words. That’s Nenna’s thing. She’s doing a couple of pieces tonight."
"Rush is reading, too. The man's a lyrical genius, a real poetic soldier. It’s such a cool talent to flow like that. His next project is an urban poet's society of spoken word artists called Vocal Cords that’ll teach kids the value of poetry. Kahlil will be drumming between sets and accompanying the poets’ performances."
"That should be a nice touch, the drumming and the words dancing together. We held readings like that at Spelman. The brothers from Morehouse College would come over, and we’d gather in the student union and just vibe. It was deep, seeing those men open up like that and share. The flavor was so real, you know?"
“I love your connection to the basics. I mean, conversations were never like this with Chelsea. Asha, you don’t understand. Debating the nutritional value in soul food versus the Primrose Café menu, or the spring selection at Barney’s versus Saks, or vacationing in the Hamptons versus Colorado Springs, gets old." Thad paused. "Asha, listen to me, ranting about the ex already. I’m sorry. So, you attended Spelman? What’s it like going to school with all those other women?"
"Of course, there were instances of major drama, but I found a place for myself and met some cool sisters. Morehouse is right next door, so we weren’t sheltered, but it was a big change from living under my parents’ roof and going to a performing arts high school. I learned a lot. I just graduated, early actually."
"Early?" His voice changed. "How ol– um, what did you study?"
"Philosophy. Took summer classes to finish in three years. All I want to do is dance. Came to New York to see how the big kids do it before I conquer a dance academy in Paris that I dream about attending. My dad didn’t want me to leave. He’s scared for his little girl. You know, bright lights, big city? I’m getting all of my adventure-seeking out of my system while I’m still young. I’ll be twenty next Saturday."
Twenty. He swallowed the number. "Oh. . .cool. Well, I went to Howard undergrad. I studied business, and just got my MBA from Columbia."
"I know. Saadiq told me. Columbia, that’s impressive."
"Thanks. I’ll be twenty-six next month. Fortunately, I've already created my dream business, so I’m feeling pretty good about this accomplishment."
"This place is totally righteous, Thad. Gosh, sometimes I wish the whole world was just like this place. You know what I mean? Like, I wish people didn’t have to travel to discover – what do you call it, African Heaven?"
"A Nubian Eden with an Urban Edge." Thad smiled.
"Ah, yes, a Nubian Eden. I dig that! But I wish we just lived in this, like, in a Nubian Rhythm World, you know?"
"Exactly! Me, too! I can’t believe you’re reading my mind like that. On second thought, I hope you’re not reading my mind; otherwise, you’d leave this table quicker than you sat down." Thad laughed with Asha while his eyes traveled up and down her legs. Then a chill suddenly breezed along the nape of his neck. Thad lost his smile as he looked toward a table a few feet away where Chelsea and Kayla waved mockingly at him. "Would you excuse me for a moment, Asha?" Thad charged over to Chelsea’s table. "What the hell are you doing here?"
"Is that the little skank from last night?" Kayla asked.
"Chelsea, why are you here? Didn’t you beat me up enough already?"
"It’s a public place." Chelsea’s stare was hard and glazed. She sipped her red rum leisurely, leaving red lipstick traces on the rim of the glass. "Just couldn’t wait, could you, Thaddeus? Dropped a real woman, carrying your unborn child, no less, and ran straight into the arms of an actual child. Just look at that young, tender thing."
"What's her curfew, or is it already past her bedtime?" Kayla snickered.
"Tell me, Thaddeus. Does that mystical creature have special powers? No, let me guess. Does she have a ring or a bone piercing her nose? It’s always one of the two. And can’t you lose your license for serving alcohol to minors? But I guess she moves pretty fast for her age. What is it they say, Kay? Earthy girls are easy?"
"Shut the hell up! This is childish. You two are the real immature ones. Why the hell are you dressed like hookers?" Thad surveyed their short, low-cut outfits, attire thoroughly out of place among the largely collegiate crowd that had gathered among local poets and rappers at the supper club that evening. "I don’t want this kind of lasciviousness here! Have some respect, at least for yourselves."
"Lasciviousness? Oh, now you want to be my daddy. Oooh, scold me," Chelsea cooed. Her eyes were like deep freezers, and her batting eyelashes fanned an icy air that cooled the entire club.
"Cut the filthy little vamp routine and get the hell out of here now!"
"I want to be bad, Daddy. We came here to get a little action just like you."
"Go to hell, Chelsea!"
Chelsea grabbed the tail of Thad's shirt before he could get away, pulling him back toward her. She uncrossed her legs in slow motion, spreading her caramel thighs. While Chelsea firmly clutched Thad’s tightening buttocks in her right hand, a long, red fingernail on her left lifted her short skirt, just high enough to reveal that she wore nothing underneath. Chelsea’s feminine power pulsated while she made small circles at her waist. Thad felt the freezer burn. He couldn’t take his eyes away from Chelsea’s crotch as the excruciating moment turned lethal. She dug her nails deeper into his tense cheeks until he flinched from the pain.
Meanwhile, Asha turned in her chair to look for her date. From the corner of her eye, Asha watched Chelsea lick her lips at Thad with a lingering tongue roll.
Then Thad heard Saadiq on the house microphone, calling for poets to sign his clipboard. Thad snapped out of his lusty daze. He looked at Chelsea’s heavily made-up face. "Damn, how can I still get worked up by the same woman who tried to rip my eyeballs out earlier today?" Thad’s question was a heavy breath. "You’re pulling out all the stops tonight, aren’t you?"
"Just forget you ever saw that tonight, because there’s no way to relieve yourself now." Chelsea closed her legs, depriving Thad’s undeserving eyes of a glorious view. She mouthed silently, "Sinner."
"I wish to God I never said what I said to you. It was a simple saying. Now you’re gonna haunt me with my own words? You’re deranged." Thad yanked away from his tormentor. He took his seat across from Asha, shaking the image of Chelsea’s pretty privates from his mind. "I’m sorry I kept you waiting, Asha," Thad apologized, rubbing the awakening excitement in his slacks under the table.
Suddenly, confusion wrinkled Thad’s forehead, as soft toes under the table reached from Asha’s direction, crept up the hem of his pants and gently caressed his calf muscle. Asha leaned back in her chair with a new ease that had hid under a mask of shyness minutes before. She removed the straw from her goblet and placed it in her mouth. Slowly, she pulled the straw through her glistening lips and licked its tip. Warm toes, phallic gestures, come-hither eyes that told him to go thither – these mixed-messages made Thad’s condition worse.
"I want to show you something," Asha purred, fanning herself lazily so her bangles rattled an ethereal mating call. She looked over her shoulder and waited until Chelsea and Kayla glanced in her direction. Then, grabbing Thad’s hand, Asha led him like a mindless animal right past their table –close enough to cut her competitor with switch-knife eyes and a quick whiff of cocoa butter and apples.
"Oh no, she didn’t," Chelsea and Kayla chimed together in pure disbelief.
In the dimly lit, unfamiliar supper club, Asha invented the expedition as it unfolded. She searched for a secluded place. Heading for the only bright lights in sight, Asha dragged Thad through the double doors of the kitchen and past Saadiq’s aunts frying meat pies and catfish fritters on the grill. An unlit storeroom in the kitchen's far reaches presented itself as the perfect destination. Still clasping hands, Asha lured Thad through the deep black rectangle on the stark white wall and drew the curtains over the entrance closed.
As a dash of blue moonlight through a high window barely shared its shine, Thad looked into what he could see of Asha’s eyes. "You wanted to show me something?"
"Thad, you’re an intelligent man." Asha took his shoulders and rested him against a stainless steel counter. "I’m sure you’ve figured out what it is by now."
"Well, I have an idea, but, I mean, I just met you."
"That’s okay, sweetheart." Asha stepped closer to him, pressing her cheek to his and rubbing her pelvis on his hardness in a thick, deliberate grind. She whispered, "I feel like I’ve known you all my life. We think a lot alike. I feel a real connection, don’t you?"
"Yes. Sure," he whispered back, feeling her breath on his ear, its warmth melting the wax, his brain, and everything else inside of it. He laughed nervously. "Look, uh, I'm totally lost. I don’t know what to make of this night or this entire day. Asha, you’re a very attractive girl, but don’t you think it’s too soon for this? I think maybe we should wait or–"
"Shhh." Asha placed her finger over his lips. She stepped back into the blue box of light that the high window dropped to the floor. "It’s never too early between two souls like ours. Two minds, two bodies, dancing to the melody of heartbeats. Like the drums and the poetry."
Thad gripped the counter and shook his head like the son of a preacher man on the ledge of devilish peer pressure.
"You mean to tell me you don’t want to see this, Thad?" Asha slithered out of her jungle-print skirt and removed her black halter. The light re-dressed her body in nothing but a metallic purple glow. Each perfect breast beckoned him, and her quiescent, feathery cove begged to be invaded.
"I don’t have any protection," Thad whispered.
"Don’t worry, baby. I know what to do."
Thad waited, full of steam, full of a familiar hunger, starving for a spot to pile drive his storage of anger for Chelsea. He squeezed his throbbing arousal. About to explode with agitation, he grabbed Asha, groping her, kissing her, licking her. She squirmed out of his hungry grip and shoved him away. She kept him at arm’s length.
"Naughty boy," Asha scolded, pushing him back against the counter. "I don’t work that way."
"Oh my God. I’m sorry." Thad chuckled, bashfully, crossing his arms, turning his body to hide his stiff shame. "This didn’t feel right, Asha, but, it’s just that you offered, and what you’re offering looks scrumptious as hell." He laughed again, scratching his head and backing away. "I guess I should’ve checked myself. Every woman isn’t into aggressive sex."
"Sex? Is that Chelsea’s thing, rough sex? I’m not into sex at all, Thad," Asha replied, drawing him back toward her by the collar. "I’m into love-making. There’s a big difference." She kissed his forehead. "Now, let’s try this again."
Asha slowly stripped Thad of his clothing, his desire building with each layer removed. She laid him flat on the counter, and the cold steel sent a shockwave through his naked body. She dotted him with tender kisses from head to other head to toe, while he savored the sensation of her soft lips against his skin. She climbed onto the counter and crawled over him. She traced a wet trail around his neck and chest with her tongue. The electricity in her mouth sent a current to his hands, which impulsively hugged her waist. He gripped the small of her back, as she mounted him and allowed him to gently glide inside.
Their lips locked. Their bodies rocked in symbiotic undulations.
The sizzling grill, kitchen crew's voices, and clanking dishes barely masked her wailing or his moaning, making the sensuous act all the more exciting – the turn-on heightened, knowing that, at any moment, they could be caught, pleasuring each other’s bodies.
Thad shifted on top of Asha and kissed her heaving bosom. He caressed her hips as he played in her naval with his tongue, before easing lower, pushing the muscle in his mouth past tangled vines until it reached sweet wetness and stayed awhile.
Thad rose again, plunging his vessel into her sea, and, as Asha swallowed him in her waves, a solitary drop of passion trailed back up her system, spilling as a single tear from her eye. At the same time, Thad closed his eyes to fight back what came naturally – the urge to dig her out with force. Instead, he worked her terrain with keen concentration, thrusting rhythmically, in sync with the tribal drumming that drifted in from the club.
Good for the body. Swaying. Swimming. Swishing.
Bad for the mind. Drifting. Drowning. Draining.
At the almighty point of human connection, an invisible foot, heavy with hidden motives, pressed the gas pedal of eroticism’s dingy side, until Asha and Thad smacked into one another’s unspoken places. Outside of the storeroom’s high window a cannon of thunder exploded. Streaks of lightning crackled. The sky started its war of monstrous rain again. Simultaneously, inside the secluded room, lust’s momentum sent pots and pans from the shelf below crashing to the floor. The tumultuous clangor sounded just as Asha’s and Thad’s mounting urges climaxed like the surge of gigantic geysers. Thad signaled Asha. She quickly released him from her grip, digging her nails into his thighs, as he sprayed shame onto her abdomen in an orgasmic frenzy.
Feeling like a filthy, empty basement, Asha cradled Thad as he fell on top of her.
In the meantime, Chelsea had fought her way past the horde of college men that had swarmed around her table in the club to flirt with her and Kayla. She had found her way to the back of the kitchen. She had watched.
Chelsea stood paralyzed by disbelief, staring at Asha and Thad locked in a shadowy maze of sweaty arms and legs. Chelsea shook herself out of the shock. She snatched the curtain closed and staggered back into the club. Suddenly, disgust pinched her innards, burning the back of her throat. She dashed to the ladies’ room, fumbled into the last stall, hoisted up the toilet seat and dropped to her knees. One convulsion, then two, a heave and a half, and the water in the bowl splattered with the salmon tint of vomit, as Chelsea revisited her lunch –and images of Thad’s emotionless skin-play with Asha –in violent gags.
Kayla, meanwhile, had wandered over to the poets lounge and eased her way to the end of a bamboo bench. "Hi."
"Hi." Saadiq looked up from the clipboard in his lap. "Kayla, right?"
"Yep." Kayla looked at the stage, then down at her hands.
"Are you interested in sharing a piece tonight, or. . ."
"No. I’m no Maya Angelou." Kayla chuckled, her eyes straying. "Besides, I’m more into music than poetry, which I guess is the same thing, except that what’s recited becomes resonated and complemented by the rhythm of instruments.” She finally glanced up at Saadiq. “Why are you looking at me like that?"
"Uh, no reason." Saadiq returned his bottom lip to its upright position.
"Surprised that I can actually hold a conversation?" Kayla smiled.
"Sorry. Was that obvious?" Saadiq covered his face, groaning apologies. "I didn’t mean to be rude. All I know about you is what Thad tells me and, I guess, what I see in your friend Chelsea."
"Well, I’m not Chelsea." Kayla scooted closer to him. "Besides, that’s not a fair way to judge someone. What if I said all I knew about you was what Chelsea tells me and what I see in Thad, and then held that against you?"
"Touché, mademoiselle."
"Oh. Tu parle francaise?"
"Just a little. I mean, I’m no regular on the French Riviera." Saadiq ran his fingers through his dreadlocks. "So, you dig music?"
A chocoholic wickedly tempted by fields of milky brown kingdom come, Kayla watched Saadiq’s locks snake through his fingers and fall back against his broad shoulders –his supernatural cool, a walk on the wild side of her usual candy cravings. "Heavily. I’m a music video junkie." She tugged at her gold drop earring. "Actually, after news media, I think music is the world’s greatest communicator."
"Right on, sister. Now that I know we’re eating from the same sum-and-substance, I’d love to share one of my many cultural theories with you."
"Please." Kayla casually draped an arm over the part of the bench behind his back.
"Okay." Saadiq’s face brightened as he shifted toward Kayla to explain his mind’s work. "I’ve conceptualized theories that I want Arianna to help me compile in a written volume once she publishes her own book. The most prominent is my belief that black music will eventually bring unity to humanity. Hear me out. See, it’s evident in the universal appeal of black music –hip-hop, rhythm and blues, jazz, reggae, gospel, rock, funk, soul –as the musical choice of our generation."
"Wow, you know, I read a recent article about this phenomenon."
"Yes. Cultural studies circles are buzzing with this. Anyway, I’m predicting that the new millennium will witness the flourishing of a new society at the hands of the Neo-Soul and Hip Hop Nations, due, in part, to a unification under the shared values of Generation X –the most multiculturally open-minded in our nation’s history. These values are influenced, in part, by music, and the music that happens to be created by black people speaks to the generation of this ‘new world order.’ You dig it?"
Kayla pretended to absorb Saadiq's theorems, watching with intense intrigue the prophet's lips under his nappy goatee as he spoke. She was lost in the sway of Saadiq’s locks, each seeming to contain fibers of rich intellect, cultural prowess and historical pride, sealed into the kinky rope sprouting from his fertile crown. Up at the mike reciting theorems of her own, Nenna watched Kayla poke her perky chest out and cross her long, bare leg toward Saadiq, tossing it seductively to the funky rhythm of Kahlil’s drumbeats.
Just as Saadiq noticed Kayla’s bullet bra peeking from under her super-tight top, Chelsea appeared, grabbed Kayla and dragged her out of the club.


If you enjoyed this excerpt, please purchase Sin in Soul’s Kitchen by Andrew Oye at your local bookstore or online at: http://www.amazon.com/Sin-Souls-Kitchen-Novel-Presents/dp/1593092555/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1247600263&sr=1-1