[Preview]
Most brothas look at me like I'm on crack or somethin' when I tell 'em that I'm celibate. Yes, that means no tongue-kissin'. No touchin'. And no fuckin'. No, it ain't cause I'm a damn Christian. Shit, it be the church-goin' girls that be the main ones shakin' they ass in the club two o'clock in the morning, sleepin' around with every-damn-body, then have the nerve, talkin' 'bout going to church on Sunday mornin'. Chile, please! And I'm not saving myself for marriage. Who the hell says I'll ever find The One? And when (or even if) I finally do, I'm sure the 'lack of' will get to me before then. Not gay, though I have been accused. I swear, men are always so quick to call a chick a lesbian if they don't want to sleep with 'em. Assholes!
[Preview]
Some people are so stuck in their old-fashioned ways even wearing a pair of jeans before ironing them seems scandalous to them. Disgraceful. An abomination.
Never met a man more traditional than Suga. That isn’t his real name. No way his momma would’ve named a man like him that. Was sort of an adolescent sobriquet one of his women gave him way back when, stuck with family throughout the years.
[Preview]
I'm in your office. In my nylons, my perfectly pressed two-piece. You're in your suit, suspenders and tie, the whole nine. Lunging over me, kissing me, one hand toying with my long bleached tresses. The other grazes my breasts that lay free in my silk top, slips south, caresses my right knee. My hand touches yours, chases yours, anticipates what you will do with yours. You uncross my legs gently. I spread my thighs, welcome you, your hands, fingers.
