Respect Me, Part 1 by Nia Arthurs
Jerrison
She mademe wait until the eleventh date to sleep with her.
When we first started dating, I wanted to jump her.
Before then.
From day one. From the very moment I saw her at the boxing match.
She was bent over. Thick thighs. Even thicker behind. Palms slapping the ring. Fingers curled into the ropes.
All that dark skin on display.
All that fire and fight.
My pants saluted. My tongue went dry.
I went home and dreamt about her. At night. In the shower.
She was the fantasy in my head for weeks before I even spoke to her.
When we started dating, I didn’t have patience. I needed to feel her skin. See under her clothes. Taste her on my tongue and lick her from my fingertips.
And she said no.
Three months.
Ninety days.
I waited.
Torture.
Chaos.
Nights spent in cold showers. Empty beds. Trying to visualize what it would be like when I finally had more than my imagination.
That woman was my jailer.
My Grim Reaper.
My way to heaven.
She was the carrot dangling in front of me. Wait. Wait. Wait.
Obsession.
Craving.
She tested the very edge of my patience.
Maybe if I’d been prepared to show restraint, her big, flashing stop sign wouldn’t have hit me the way it did.
But I hadn’t.
Harriet was no prude. Not the way she dressed. She wore booty shorts and crop tops. She liked her heels at least six inches and her cleavage bounced with every step she took.
She liked dressing with something on display—legs, breasts, sometimes both.
And hell, I liked it too.
So did every heterosexual guy within a ten mile radius.
I didn’t expect her to draw that kind of line.
Wait, she told me that night when our breaths fogged up the car, one hand in her skirt and the other in her bra. My body begged to expose every inch of her. I was almost bursting out of my pants.
Wait.
Wait for what?
But hell if it didn’t make me chase her more.
The night I finally got the keys to the lock was worth every second spent holding back. I still remember the way I snaked my arms around her waist and pulled her into bed. She giggled and then moaned as I spread her legs and inhaled her, stopping for a moment to say a blessing over my meal.
That night was the last night I spent apart from her. I got her naked every chance I could. On the wall. Against the table. On the floor if the distance to the nearest bed wasn’t short enough.
My tongue was always wet. My groans were always loud. And hers were always bigger. Wilder. A little more frantic.
There was gratitude, as if she’d never been given the opportunity to scream like that. To experience pleasure like that.
And it made my ego inflate to the size of a mountain.
I was her man.
And I was her teddy bear.
She liked cuddling. And maybe I liked it too.
I held her after. Sometimes, we talked. Sometimes, we kissed. She was the first woman that, when I slid inside her, I never wanted to leave.
Then we got married.
And leaving became a habit.
The spontaneity changed.
She preferred taking things off one at a time. Wrapping her hair because she had to preserve her weave. Answering her cell phone because there was an emergency at work.
I remembered my lessons in patience.
Wait.
Wait.
Wait.
But the strain of our fights entered the bedroom. The connection dried up until it was once a week and then once every two.
Suddenly, I didn’t feel the need to reach for her because I knew her hand would push mine away. Knew she would close her legs. Turn her back. Give me words that didn’t end in ‘yes, please, harder’.
I’m busy, Jer.
Not tonight, Jer.
Is that all you think about?
Hell.
And yes.
She used to love it too.
Still does.
At least, when she allows herself to sink into the moment.
It’s harder these days, but it’s still possible.
I know it is.
We’re out of sync in our marriage but not in the bedroom.
That part is easy. That part is hands reaching for clothes and then skin and then inside her where I find all the ways I can make her tremble.
I know her.
Years of study.
Years of practice.
What she likes. What she doesn’t. How far she’ll wander into the dark side. The lines she’ll draw. Her rhythms. Her pleasure points. The tiny bundle of nerves that’ll make her jump. The one that’ll make her cry. The one that’ll make her scream like she’s about to lose her head.
Predictable as a wind-up toy.
Predictable is good.
But it’s boring.
She’s my wife.
And I’m her husband.
It should have gotten better. Been more.
We signed the papers. Made joint bank accounts. Built an empire together.
But everything in the bedroom lost its sizzle. Dried up until we had to put it on the schedule just to remember to be intimate.
If I could walk it all back, if I could travel in time and try to find the moment we stopped being those reckless kids who couldn’t get enough of each other, I probably wouldn’t be able to find it.
It’s not a clean break.
A line in the sand.
Before. After.
Nothing like that.
Gradual.
Slowly.
One rejection bleeding into two.
And then grudging acceptance. Mechanically pushing the legs apart. Hips that rolled without purpose. Groans without passion. Lips that met and then separated because we could taste the distance.
Familiarity is an odd thing.
Comfort in exchange for excitement.
Avoidance hidden within reluctance.
Going through the motions always left me with a bad taste in my mouth, but it’s especially unacceptable tonight.
It’s dark in the bedroom.
My hands are hot on Harriet’s skin.
We fought, like usual—but this fight is about more than the bills, my staying out late, or another woman. This time, my heart got singed by the thought that my wife is falling for someone else.
I won’t ever let that happen.
This woman is mine.
And I need to remind her of that.
So I peel her pants down to her ankles. Reveal the creamy brown skin hidden beneath her stockings. I take my time because she likes that. Because the build-up, the anticipation, strokes the impatience inside her.
She’s wearing her low-riding underwear. The ones that are a tad too sexy and a tad too uncomfortable for regular use.
Heat flashes in my chest.
This wasn’t for me.
Was it the other guy?
My hands tighten on her hips.
She whimpers. Squeaks my name.
I crawl over her and press my hand into the bed. Hovering close, I stare into her eyes. They’re dark brown. Deeper. Almost black in the shadows.
Her focus is on me.
All me.
Good.
I kiss her soundly. My fingers slip up her thighs as I leave my mark inside her mouth. Her arms wrap around my neck and pull me even closer to her until we’re lined up perfectly.
Pushing her away, I growl into her face. “The only tongue that belongs on you is mine.”
She’s too busy shaking.
I’m not sure if she even heard me.
“Do you understand, Harriet?” I whisper.
Her breathing thickens. “Yes.”
I undo her top.
One button slips away.
Two.
“Relax,” I whisper, caressing her hair.
“I am relaxed.” Her eyes are sharp. There’s still a little annoyance from the fight.
It’ll make what’s coming even sweeter.
“Not enough.” I shrug her out of her shirt. “I’m not going to rush tonight, baby.”
“Please.” She paws at my pants, but I grip both hands and kiss my way down to her thighs. Both legs clamp around my head as I make my mark somewhere else.
Mine.
When I’m done, when I’m sure she’s ready for me and there won’t be any fingers grappling for the ‘lotion bottle’, I take my clothes off.
When we move, I realize that we haven’t lost our spark.
Not one bit of it.
Time suspends.
Pleasure rises. Rises.
It’s intense in a way it hasn’t been in a while. And I get my reward for tending to her first.
We shower together and then she falls asleep on the bed, too exhausted to even snore.
I slip out of the covers.
Rise.
Watch the moonlight caress her brown cheeks. The chest that rises and falls. The bruises on her neck from where I branded my kisses on her skin.
My shoes don’t make a sound when I leave the bedroom. Into the office.
The cell phone appears in my hand.
I press a button. Listen to it ring.
There’s an answer. “Do you know what time it is, J? ”
I keep my voice low. “Patrick.”
“What?”
“Do you still have the number for that PI? The one your wife used to track you?”
He curses. “Why would you bring that up now, man?”
“Because,” my eyes slide to the doorway and focus on the bedroom next door, “I need to hire him.”
