Everything's Better With Kimberly Page 3

  Every dick pill commercial said to call a doctor after an erection lasting longer than four hours. I had definitely doubled that, so I really didn’t have a choice. This was a medical emergency. I squirted conditioner into my hand and renewed my stroke, remembering our first conversation.

  “Are you Adam Price?”

  I couldn’t remember ever being so happy to be Adam Price.

  “Is there anything else I should know?”

  She hit me with that clever, innocent smile. I could feel my balls tightening.

  I wondered what she was doing in the suite. She probably wasn’t jerking off in the shower like a fourteen year old kid. She was most likely doing one of her crossword puzzles or organizing her suitcase. She was fucking adorable. Every time she spoke it was like she had weighed three different options in her mind before saying the perfect thing. Her smiling face and big brown eyes floated to my consciousness one last time before I felt my entire body clench. I half screamed, half grunted her name as I exploded onto the tiled floor of the shower.

  I leaned against the wall to catch my breath. I finished my shower by lathering up, rinsing off and hitting myself with a blast of cold water. I gently toweled off, leaving my skin damp, and fell across the bed butt naked, letting the ceiling fan cool the water on my skin. I sighed contentedly and drifted off to sleep, still unable to get Kimberly off my mind.

  I jerked awake and checked my watch. It was only six forty-five. I couldn’t wait any longer. If I did, I’d have to take another shower. I slipped into a pair of boxer briefs and a tank top. The shirt I chose was, hopefully, dark enough to hide sweat marks, and a pair of shorts finished off the look. I ran my fingers through my hair a couple of times and grabbed my phone and wallet before leaving the hellscape I’d be returning to after dinner.

  It was too early when I knocked on the door, but I was hoping she’d have pity on me and let me sit in the AC while she finished getting ready. I also hadn’t had any WiFi since landing and was hoping to do a little internet sleuthing on Kimberly. Maybe I could cool this obsession if I found out she was wanted for murder, or worse, was a person who liked their own social media posts.

  three

  Kimberly

  “Hey, Stringbean.” Cole’s face beamed up at me through my tablet.

  “Hey, Fruity Pebbles.”

  “How’s Barbados?”

  “Rainy.”

  “Good flight?” he asked. I nodded. “Give me the tour of your billion dollar suite.” He was being sarcastic. Yes, Wolfe Industries was a Fortune 100 company, but junior assistant project managers didn’t warrant luxury accommodations; that is, unless they met sympathetic, handsome strangers on airplanes. I walked around the apartment holding up the tablet. Cole let out a loud whistle.

  “Holy shit. Is that a pool?” he said. “Why did I become a lawyer again?”

  “Because you’re the original Reggie Simmons stan.” I laughed. He gave me the finger. “And technically, this isn’t my room.” I gave him a nervous smile. His brow furrowed.

  “Well ‘technically,’” he made Mom’s famous air quotes, “whose room is it?”

  I took a deep breath and talked him through the flight, meeting Adam and the circumstances that led to me trading Fred Flintstone’s hot ass one bedroom suite for a magnificent four thousand square foot apartment. I stopped talking and bit my lip waiting for a response.

  “Cole. Say something.”

  “What do you want me say? It seems like this guy is really into you.”

  “No, he isn’t. He’s just being nice because we’re on the same team. He’s also kind of obnoxious.”

  “Mmm hmm.” Cole looked unconvinced. “He seems to be doing the most for somebody that he doesn’t even like.”

  “Trust me. It’s purely professional.”

  “Look Kimmy, you’ve kept yourself closed off for as long as I’ve known you, only letting a handful of people in. Then, you finally took a chance on somebody and they turned out to be a dick.”

  I tucked my lips between my teeth and looked away.

  “I’m not trying piss you off. I just want you to be open to new possibilities. Be careful, but let your guard down a little.”

  I looked at him and smiled.

  “But not too much. I’d hate to have to fly to Barbados and kick someone’s ass.”

  “Like the last time?” I raised my eyebrows at him.

  Cole shot me a fake wounded expression. “How many times do I have to tell you I had nothing to do with that?”

  I rolled my eyes at him. “Goodbye, brother from another mother.”

  “Peace out, sister from another mister. Be good. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  “That’s a short list.”

  I thought about what Cole said about Adam. Why he came into my life today of all days, I’ll never know, but from the time I laid eyes on him until I watched him roll his little suitcase to the elevator, he’s been my knight in shining armor.

  He helped me during my panic attack and drove me to my hotel. I don’t know what I would have done if he hadn’t offered to trade rooms. There was no way I was going to agree to staying with him even though I could hear my Auntie Patrice screaming in my head, “Girl! Take that air conditioning!”

  My hair was already responding to the humidity and I knew my silk wrap was living on borrowed time. I also had strict instructions not to use any heat on my hair unless it was an emergency. There was no way I’d survive a night without air conditioning.

  Auntie Patrice is a hair stylist and one of my mom’s oldest friends. She’s tall, dark, gorgeous, bald and looks like she’s in her forties but no one knows how old she is. My mom said she was at least in her thirties when she met her and that was in the early nineties.

  They met during Mom’s modeling days and she’s been doing her hair ever since, and my hair, when I came along. She came to the house almost every Sunday to work her magic despite having multiple salons and a popular line of haircare products.

  I could rarely persuade her to straighten my hair, but he acquiesced this time, with a little begging, but not without a full page of instructions and about a dozen three ounce bottles of hair products.

  I put my hair in a thick halo braid to keep it off of my neck and stave off the curls I knew were coming eventually. I spritzed it with oil and wrapped it in a silk scarf. It was 4:15 pm. Adam would be here to pick me up in a little over three hours. That left me plenty of time to meditate for a few minutes and take a nap. This had been an exhausting day, mentally and physically.

  I sat on one of the chairs on the oceanfront balcony, closed my eyes and began to breathe, deeply and slowly. The negative aspects of the day immediately filled my head. Doubt about my capability to manage this project swirled, and then Adam’s laughing face floated into my consciousness. I could almost feel the warmth of his hands and hear his voice.

  “Look at me. Stay with me.”

  I saw the hungry look in his eye when we stood facing each other in the sitting room.

  “I wouldn’t be able to sleep if I knew you were uncomfortable.”

  He looked like he wanted to kiss me. A part of me wanted him to kiss me. His big, strong hands were pressing into the flesh of my shoulders sending waves of heat to all the right places. The skin of my nipples pulled together forming tight little pebbles under my dress, moisture pooled between my thighs, and my flesh felt like pure electricity. Then he pulled away.

  I let my thoughts of Adam run their course as they had succeeded in making me calm and pushing away my anxiety. I decided to shower off the sweat and try to shift my focus away from his firm biceps, his facial hair and his everything else.

  Stepping out of my dress, I unfastened my bra and peeled off my panties. They were stuck to me which I was sure had very little to do with the weather. I pulled on a shower cap and stepped in the hot stream of water and closed my eyes.

  “And that’s…all you’ve heard about me?”

  Adam Price’s adorable
countenance had invaded my thoughts again, and much like the actual Adam Price, it was persistent.

  No, Kimberly. You will not masturb— Shut up! Shut up! Shut the fuck up!

  I imagined myself grabbing handfuls of Adam’s golden locks, pulling his face towards me and feeling him drag his bristled cheek down over the curve of my neck, past my shoulder and over my small breasts, stopping to plant a kiss on each erect nipple before moving downward. I could feel his face between my thighs, his lips on mine, parting them gently with his tongue. But it wasn’t his lips I was feeling.

  My hand slid between my thighs, parted my labia and started massaging my clit with my middle fingers. It was throbbing, aching with longing and slick with juices. I moaned with a pleasure I didn't know I needed as I imagined Adam taking me, body and soul, while jerking my fingers back and forth over my throbbing sex. Replaying his deep gravelly voice sent me into paroxysms of pleasure as I pushed two fingers inside myself, imagining I was being impaled by the large bulge hidden beneath his jeans. I was fucking myself furiously with two fingers while rubbing my clit with my thumb, the other hand teasing and caressing my erect and impossibly sensitive nipples as I imagined all of the filthy and naughty things I wanted Adam Price to do to my body. Things I’d never experienced but fantasized about for years.

  The climax I’d been cultivating was building in searing hot waves until I finally exploded, screaming his name. I relaxed against the tiled wall of the shower, occasionally twitching from the mini aftershocks of the massive orgasm I had given myself, but it wasn’t enough. My eyes drifted to the hand-held shower attachment. I snatched it out of its holster, put my foot on the soap dish and continued to do the thing I was dying to do since I laid eyes on him in the airplane.

  Twenty minutes later, I stepped out of the shower feeling light as a feather. Wrapping myself in a giant, terry cloth bathrobe, I flopped onto my king-sized bed with the biggest, laziest grin on my face.

  “Hey, Siri. Set a timer for two hours.”

  “Ok, your timer is set for—”

  I didn’t hear the rest of her response.

  Two hours later, I rose from the bed feeling like I’d slept for days. I had forty-five minutes to get ready for our date.

  No, Kimberly. You are not going on a date with the Man-Whore.

  Make that forty-five minutes to get ready for our very professional dinner.

  Tonight was going to be hot and humid so comfort was key. I slipped into a navy blue and white handkerchief maxi dress with spaghetti straps.

  In the bathroom, I laid out my makeup and took a long, hard look at myself in the mirror. Of course, I wanted to look good, but did I want to look good for him? If the answer was yes, what did that mean? I decided to go basic: mascara, highlighter and lip gloss. That’s it. That’s all he’s getting. Then I used a little concealer and just a touch of blush. I also added a dab of powder before zipping my makeup bag closed and tossing it in my suitcase, making sure I couldn’t reach for my eyeliner.

  I was in the middle of performing an in-depth analysis of how many spritzes of perfume were appropriate for a very professional dinner when I heard a knock. I looked at my watch. It was 7:15. I pulled off my scarf and opened the door.

  “Sorry, I know I’m early but…” His words died away when he saw me. He was slowly devouring my body with his gaze. His eyes traveled from my silver sandals, up my body where they briefly lingered on my hips and breasts before fixing on my eyes. “Wow,” he whispered.

  “I’m almost ready,” I managed to say, “I just have to do my hair. You can wait—”

  “No,” he whispered, “I like it like this. It looks like a crown.” He took a step closer grinning. “Princess Kimberly.”

  His eyes traveled from my halo braid to my exposed throat and he seemed to be waging some sort of internal struggle. I swallowed nervously, not sure what I wanted to happen next. He cleared his throat and took a step back again.

  “How much time do you need?”

  “Well, if I don’t need to do my hair, I guess I’m ready now,” I smiled, forgetting about the perfume.

  “Let’s do it,” he said. When I furrowed my brow, he quickly added, “Let’s go have dinner.”

  He’d just made me laugh for what felt like the hundredth time.

  four

  Kimberly

  Our meal was a little less tense. We decided on traditional Barbados fare, though the resort had lots of choices. Adam chose not to drink because I wasn’t drinking, which I thought was considerate even though I told him I didn’t mind. We discovered we lived only eight blocks from each other; though, we’d never seen each other in the neighborhood. I was sure I’d remember him.

  We talked about our families. His family is pretty famous, especially if you lived in New York, but he talked mostly about his brother. I told him that my dad was a judge, my mom was a psychiatrist and they owned investment properties all over the city. I talked about my brothers, Cole and RJ. He also managed to get me to admit that I wasn’t seeing anyone. He was single, too — not that it mattered.

  For our main course we ordered what we were told was the country’s national dish, called flying fish and cou cou.

  “What do you think?” I asked.

  “It’s interesting. What’s this yellow stuff?” He was pointing to the mound of yellow meal on the plate.

  “I think that’s the cou cou. It kind of tastes like grits.” I ate another forkful.

  “What’s grits?” he asked. I stopped chewing.

  “Grits are grits.” It was like someone asking me what water was. I was suddenly reminded of the scene from My Cousin Vinny and I wondered if Adam had ever seen the movie. “You’ve lived in Harlem for three years and you’ve never tried grits. They’re everywhere.”

  “Nope.” He shoved a piece of fish in his mouth. “I’ve never had grits.”

  “Do you have any family from the South?”

  “No,” Adam laughed. “The Prices are as old as New York.”

  “Hmm.” I said pointedly, and continued to eat.

  “What was that?”

  “What was what?” I asked innocently.

  “That look and that noise you just made. Hmm!” he mimicked and I laughed.

  “You,” I began slowly, “are a gentrifier,” before adding, “and I do not look like that.”

  “Fuck off,” he laughed. “I am not. And that’s exactly what you look like.” He made the face and the noise again. I laughed. He smiled.

  “I’ll give you a test: What is the name of the street where the entrance of your apartment building is located?”

  “Seventh Avenue,” he answered immediately, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

  “Wrong.” I shook my head. “A true Harlemite would say Adam Clayton Powell Jr. Boulevard.”

  “That’s a mouthful, Princess,” he said. “What if a true Harlemite was in a hurry? Could he say Seventh Avenue then?”

  I laughed.

  “Do you even know who Adam Clayton Powell is?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact I do. He was a prominent Civil Rights attorney.” Then he raised his eyebrows triumphantly and added, “Ha.”

  “Did you know that before you moved to Seventh Avenue or did you just Google him because you thought it was cool that you had the same first name?” He narrowed his eyes, opened his mouth to answer, and then fed himself a giant forkful of cou cou. I laughed so hard I almost choked, and he joined in.

  “So what made you decide to move to Harlem?” I asked when we finally regained our composure.

  “Architecture, actually.” He took a sip of his water. “I’ve wanted to live in Graham Court since I studied the building in school.”

  “Really?”

  Adam told me the history of Graham Court and I was reminded of how gorgeous his eyes were when he was talking about something he was passionate about. It was built at the turn of the century by the famous architecture firm that also designed the Flatiron Building. He told me his i
dea for the atrium in his dream house was inspired by the courtyard and that he tries to make friends with his neighbors so he can check out their apartments.

  “Wow,” I sighed, “I had no idea. I must see that building every day and never thought about its history. I always just thought of it as The Carter from New Jack City.”

  “The who from the what?” he asked. I put my fork down and pushed my empty plate away.

  “Seriously?” I laughed. “You have to be kidding. New Jack City is a classic. Wesley Snipes. Chris Rock. Ice-T. You’ve really never seen it?”

  “Nope.” He grinned at me. “Does this mean I fail the test?”

  “Yes.” I picked up the dessert menu. “But maybe you can do some extra credit work.”

  “I’ll need a good tutor.” He raised an eyebrow.

  “I might know someone.” We gazed at each other again until our server came to take our dessert order and broke the tension.

  “I need to ask you a question.” I looked at Adam. “And I need you to be honest with me.” His face grew serious.

  “Okay.” He nodded and seemed to be bracing himself.

  “How is the historic suite? Really.” He visibly relaxed and gave me a small smile.

  “It’s…fine,” he said. Adam Price was a terrible liar. My eyes narrowed. “Okay. It’s hot, really hot. There are three outlets in the entire suite. I’ve taken two showers since I’ve been here. I feel like a caveman because I have no idea what’s going on in the outside world. I came to pick you up early because I wanted to sit in the air conditioning and check my emails.”

  I sat in stunned silence when he ended his confession. Then, without being able to stifle myself, I burst out laughing and couldn’t stop. His predicament wasn’t funny. It was the look on his face.